


If You Can't Survive, Just Try

by DumpsterSellout



Category: Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018), Queen (Band)
Genre: Angst, Anxiety, Crying, Depression, Freddie is also an angel, Hurt/Comfort, Imposter Sydrome, M/M, NO DEATH, PTSD, Panic Attacks, Rape Aftermath, Rape/Non-con Elements, Roger knows exactly what he's willing to put up with and that's okay too, Stockholm Syndrome, cutting tw, deaky is an angel, early 70's/smile era, im sorry Bri, like a lot of crying, major cw for most of the story, may god have mercy on my soul, please check the top of each chapter for CWs, self harm tw, suicidal ideation/thoughts, this shit is written like an episode of eastenders, uni days
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-08
Updated: 2019-03-17
Packaged: 2019-11-13 20:29:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 8
Words: 35,322
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18038465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DumpsterSellout/pseuds/DumpsterSellout
Summary: A quiet night out and a bad decision sends Brian spiralling into something he's not sure he can stop, and his friends aren't sure if they can save him from himself.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hey I'm back with more trash for y'all. Again, the title is ripped from the 1975, song titled 'I always wanna die, sometimes,' so if u want some extra emotions go listen to that  
> Please be wary of the tags when reading, CWs for the chapter at the top of each chapter.  
> CWs for this chapter include but are not limited to  
> Rape/non con  
> Drug use  
> Suicide mention (minor)  
> Mentions of vomit (emetophobics beware of this fic plz)  
> Minor D/s elements  
> Be safe, kids.

Brian hadn’t expected to get much attention, really. That wasn’t why he’d gone out. He hadn’t even wanted to go out in the first place, but Freddie, and Roger, hell, even Deaky had pushed him, after rehearsals, to come out for _just one drink, Brian, loosen up,_ so he had, even though he’d felt tired and a bit grumpy and not particularly in the mood for drinks. It was after a particularly energetic rehearsal, so he was a bit sweaty, and he’d been running late so he was wearing a holey t shirt and dirty trainers and the only clean pair of jeans he could find, and he wasn’t feeling particularly confident about setting foot out the front door, let alone inside one of the ‘hottest new bars in town’. He’d mainly done it for Deaky’s sake, seeing his pleading look when Roger and Freddie had practically cornered Brian, and something told him he’d been roped into is as well.

“Alright, Fred, jesus. I’ll have _a_ drink, but then I’m going home. I’ve got to bloody sleep,” he sighed, sounding gruff and cranky, though he hadn’t meant to. He was right though, he needed to sleep sometime. He’d been up before 4 to get to the bakery for his early shift, and had been there until after 7 helping serve customers for the morning rush - even though that wasn’t in his job description, he'd thought - and hadn’t gotten home until after 8.30 even though he was only two stops away from the flat. The trains had been majorly delayed, some poor sod had thrown themselves onto the tracks right in the middle of the peak, which Brian couldn’t help but think was a bit selfish, and even when they’d started moving again he’d had to wait for three packed full trains to come and go before he could talk himself into getting his elbows out and making himself a spot between rowdy schoolchildren and annoyed businessmen. He could have walked home in the time it had taken, but he just couldn’t find the energy. Then, when he’d finally gotten home, dodging the tired sounding greetings from Deaky and Freddie coming from the kitchen and collapsed back into bed to try to get just a _wink_ of sleep, he’d heard a little knock and Roger had poked his head in the door with a sheepish grin and held up a stack of stapled papers. Right, Brian thought, he’d said he’d give Roger a hand with chemistry before his class in the morning. He was supposed to have done it the night before, but they’d gotten caught up in a rather heated game of monopoly and Roger had locked himself in their room and hidden under his blankets until he calmed down, and had fallen asleep that way, meaning that Brian had to get a butter knife out of the drawer to flick over the bloody lock on the door from the outside when he’d heard  the distinct sound of Roger snoring. That had been at around 10.30, and then it was 8.30 and Roger had to be in class at 10, and Brian _had_ promised, so he’d dragged himself out of bed and sat at the table and helped him draw diagrams and balance equations and tried very, _very_ hard not to be short with him, because he was really trying.

He’d managed to finally get some sleep when Freddie had left for class at 11, insisting that he make Brian some breakfast, because he _‘looked pale, love,’_ and that he was trying out a new recipe. So Brian had choked his way through _that_ , telling him he’d done a nice job and agreeing to wash the dishes because Freddie was going to be late. Deaky had grinned and called him an idiot, which he was, but he just wanted to be agreeable and do as he was told so that he could go back to bed. Then, the dishes were done and Freddie gave Deaky a stupidly long kiss and flounced out the door, and Deaky had given him a wordless look of understanding and picked up a newspaper instead of turning on the telly or the radio, and Brian could have kissed him too. The flat was blissfully silent, the only sound was Deaky breathing and occasionally turning the page of his newspaper, and Brian had only given him a nod on his way to his room when he’d said,  
“Rehearsing at 3, want me to wake you?” 

Deaky had tried his best, really, but he wasn’t one for confrontation, and Brian looked like he was having a _really_ good sleep and it wouldn’t matter if they were a little bit late. Well, Deaky wouldn’t mind, because Freddie was always late, and he’d get a fond eye roll and a big kiss from him, and Brian would get an elbow to the ribs and a cheeky comment from Roger and nobody would really mind at all. But he forgot that Brian was fucking neurotic, and he woke up by himself at quarter to three and had bellowed Deaky’s name through the flat like he was trying to raise the dead. They’d made it to the university’s too echoey gymnasium in record time, Brian for once turning a blind eye to the speeding, and he’d legged it into the foyer, practically stamping his foot in anger when he noticed neither Freddie or Roger were there yet.

“Typical!” he’d shouted, earning a laugh from Deaky, who reminded him that he _had_ told him they'd be late, and Brian had laughed in defeat, and shook his head, and helped him set up Roger’s bloody drums.

 

So, walking into a loud, smelly, smoky bar wasn’t exactly Brian’s idea of a good time after the day he'd had. He’d taken a seat with his friends at a booth, and Freddie had brought over a tray of beers and a glass of something else, and he’d loosened up after the first few mouthfuls, leaning back against the padded bench seat and listening to Roger arguing _at_ Freddie about something, shooting a look at Deaky before letting his eyes wander around the bar. It wasn’t _too_ bad, he thought, adding a few more lights and turning the music down a bit would have helped, but he figured low lighting and too loud music was kind of what they were going for in most of these places. He finished his drink, taking the next round of orders, deciding _maybe_ he could stay, just for one more drink, ignoring Roger’s shit eating grin from across the table.

“Alright, three beers and a _what, Fred?_ ” he repeated, earning an eye roll and a louder yell from the singer, - _vodka tonic, Brian, honestly,_ \- and he’d given him a tired nod and headed up to the bar by himself. He’d never been very good at the whole bar thing. There wasn’t a queuing system, and he didn’t want to push in front of anybody else, everyone just sort of pushed up against each other and yelled and the poor bartender had to run back and forth and Brian didn’t want to be a nuisance. So he waited for the inevitable

 _"You’ve been waiting a long time, mate, what’ll you have?_ ” before repeating his order back and trying not to get pissed off when loud men or groups of giggly women went on shouting their orders and distracted the bartender.

 

He was a little bit surprised when a drink appeared from behind him, dark brown with a straw in it, four ice cubes floating neatly on the surface, attached to a large, weathered looking hand.

“You _have_ been waiting too long,” a deep voice came, and Brian jumped, turning around. He was met, eye to eye, with a tall, sandy haired stranger.

“Uh, hello,” was all Brian could manage, brain a bit slow from the drink he’d already had, eyeing the man up and down.

“Must be parched by now,” the man added with a sultry smirk, Brian was trying to place the accent, Scottish, maybe, setting the drink down on the bar beside Brian. His brain caught up after far too long, and he felt a blush creeping up on his cheekbones.

“Am, a bit,” he nodded, caught a little bit off guard, eyeing the drink he’d been presented with.

“I’m James,” the man added, squeezing himself in between Brian and the very skimpily dressed woman standing in front of him. Brian wondered if she was cold.

“Brian,” he said simply, throwing in a smile for good measure, watching as the man - James - leaned himself on the bar and gestured to the drink. Brian picked it up, sipping it, trying not to make a face. It was strong, and bitter, but had a sweet tinge to it. He didn’t know what he was drinking, and didn’t bother asking. He wouldn’t want to order it again.

“You’ve been sent out into the battlefield?” James asked, gesturing over at Brian’s group of friends. He spared them a glance, rolling his eyes when he noticed Roger practically lying over the top of the table making lewd gestures at them, Deaky half-heartedly trying to get him back into his seat while Freddie sat the wrong way on the bench, chatting to a group of ladies sat behind them.

“Oh, yeah,” he laughed fondly, feeling himself loosening up a little more after the second drink, which had maybe gone down a bit fast, “they’re a wild bunch.”

James just nodded, leaning in a little closer to Brian, and he could feel his face heating up. The man was, admittedly _very_ attractive. Sandy blonde hair fell down around his shoulders, forest green eyes framed by tortoiseshell glasses, just a hint of stubble on his almost too square jaw. He was tall, even taller than Brian, and looked lean but muscular, wearing clothes that were maybe a touch too tight, but in all the right places. He was maybe a few years older than him and Brian couldn’t stop his eyes flickering down his body, earning a smirk from the other man, who let his hand trace a line down Brian’s bicep, before trailing over the inside of his forearm.

“Come and have a dance, Brian,” James said, not sounding pushy or commanding, which Brian liked a lot. He just nodded, a little shyly, not exactly expecting to be hit on in his state. Or ever, really, but that was more his self esteem than anything. Tonight though, he looked a fright, clothes mismatched, stubble a little more overgrown than he normally would permit, hair wild and all over the place, maybe a little bit greasy, but maybe that was appealing? He didn’t really know. He just nodded in agreement, a tray of drinks being slid onto the bar beside him with an apologetic look from the bartender, and he suddenly remembered where he was and what he was supposed to be doing.

“I’ll just,” he gestured to the drinks, then his friends, and James nodded. 

“Yeah, yeah of course. I’ll get you another?” he offered, and Brian nodded his head, taking the tray of drinks back over to his group.

“Found a friend, Brian?” Deaky asked with a friendly smile, and he just nodded.

“Yeah, _friend_ ,” Roger scoffed, grabbing a pint in each hand. Deaky shot him a look. 

“He had another drink over there, I saw,” he said defensively, taking a large swig. Deaky just rolled his eyes, taking his own pint despite barely having sipped his way through the first one. Freddie turned for his drink, taking it, eyeing Brian, before turning back to continue his conversation with his new friends. 

“Yeah, well, think I’m going to go have a dance,” Brian said nonchalantly, playing it off with a shrug. Roger practically spat his drink, barking a laugh. The shrug was a bit much, then. 

“You don’t _dance,_ ” he said incredulously, making a point of looking over his shoulder to where James was standing, another drink in his hand, waiting patiently for him. 

“Is it going to be horizontal dancing, Brian?” the smaller blonde grinned, and he rolled his eyes at him.

“I’ll see you lot at home, thanks,” he mumbled, feeling as Freddie reached out to slap a hand on his arse, and he jumped.

“For luck, sweetheart, we won’t wait up,” he called, practically booting him back over to the waiting man, taking the drink from his outstretched hand gratefully and downing it almost in one mouthful. He loved his friends, but they were fucking stressful.

 

Roger was right. Brian _didn’t_ dance, but neither of them really seemed to notice. James wasn’t much of a dancer either, sure, he had some rhythm and was awfully good at swinging his hips, but Brian was more interested in the way his large, calloused hands were finding Brian’s waist, slipping down a little lower than Brian would have normally allowed, squeezing him ever so lightly, thumbs tangled in his belt loops, lips brushing against Brian’s own as he asked if he wanted to get out of here. Going against every moral fibre of Brian’s being, he nodded yes, he wanted to, feeling his skin prickle with… something, most likely anticipation or anxiety. Maybe it was just the way his hands were wandering and making him feel something he hadn’t in a long time, and that he could feel his friends watching him as James linked hands with him and pulled him out into the night with the promise that his house wasn’t too far.

He wasn’t kidding, it was just up the road, and he could feel his heart pounding in his chest as the door was kicked shut behind them, hands already exploring each other’s bodies. Then, his heart was pounding a little too hard, and his head was spinning a little too fast and he found a bed beneath him, thankfully, and he was laid out, the blonde standing over him and eyeing him like he was prey, taking in his slim, too long legs and the sliver of exposed belly from his too small t shirt, leaning over him and kissing him like he couldn't get enough. Brian kissed back for a moment, before pushing him away just a little bit while he got his bearings.

“Hang on, hang on…” Brian murmured, feeling a little bit weak and a little bit sick and a little bit panicky, and James sat back on his knees, one leg either side of Brian’s lap, gazing down at him.

“Mm? You okay?” he asked kindly, hands gently running up and down Brian’s chest, head tilted to one side. He nodded slowly, taking a deep breath and convincing himself he was being silly, letting James pepper him with kisses, trailing from his lips to his jaw and then down his neck, sucking a mark just beside his adams apple. He felt his breath hitch a little, and then the room was spinning again, and his stomach was starting to hurt.

“Hang on,” his voice was raspy and thick as James fumbled with the button at the top of his jeans, Brian’s hands coming down on top of his. He didn’t stop, though, managing to free the button and pull his jeans down his pale thighs.

“Wait,” he repeated, strangely not really being able to find much of a voice, holding him by the wrists to try to stop him from continuing, but his grip was weak. James just looked at him, seeming to think Brian was worried about something else, giving him a quick reassuring kiss.

“I’m a top,” he said quickly, his jeans were somehow already around his ankles and then he was crawling back on top of Brian and the world tilted sickeningly.

“Hang _on,_ ” he insisted again, and James paused for a moment, waiting for a second where Brian _stupidly_ said nothing, before continuing on.

“Mm?” he went back to kissing a trail down his chest as he pulled his t shirt off over his head, when he'd started with that Brian wasn’t sure, and it felt like he was a beat or two behind reality.

“Stop,” Brian insisted, voice a little slurred, “I don’t _feel well,_ ” he finally managed to spit out, and James hardly glanced at him. 

“Mmhm, it’ll be the drink,” he assured him, moving back up his body to lean over him, drawing him into a deep kiss. He tasted like alcohol and cigarettes and sugar cubes, and Brian couldn’t help leaning into it a little even though his stomach felt sick. Then, only when his brain replayed his words, he realised what they'd meant. He didn’t feel like he’d had too much to drink, and he _had_ only had three. Even if whatever James had given him were doubles, triples even, he shouldn’t be feeling so _off._

“I don’t feel drunk,” he protested, craning his neck a little bit to allow him to suck another mark, feeling his brain turning to cotton wool.

“Probably not love, I popped something in to help you relax, makes it a lot easier when I… you know,” he grinned, far too casual in the way he’d said it, and Brian barely realised that he was tugging his underwear down his legs. Oh, that made sense, Brian thought. His brain caught up again, realising what he’d actually said, baffled that he’d actually admitted to it so openly, mouth popping open wetly.

“You put… you what?” he asked, blinking hard to try to come around, trying to squirm away from him.

“Shh, shh shh,” James did his best to soothe him, hands finding his hair, thumbs rolling over his temples, and Brian had to fight not to lean into it.

“It’s okay baby, it’s alright,” he hushed, “it helps, I promise. It’ll be a lot nicer for you,” he insisted, and Brian felt himself practically dissolving as he reached over to his nightstand for a condom and some lube. His heart was raising the alarm, practically beating out of his chest, even his brain had caught on, well past warning sirens, telling him to get the fuck out of there, now. Only his limbs were too heavy to do anything about it, and his thoughts lagged again, and when he remembered where he was there were warm hands lifting his hips and positioning him and there were slick fingers at his entrance, pressing into him without warning. He let out a pitiful sounding moan, and James was leaning down and pressing against his ear with too hot breath, panting and mumbling to him.

“Yeah, it feels good doesn’t it baby,” he groaned, and Brian felt far too loose and floppy and his head was pounding in time with his heart and he wanted to scream and kick and swear, but he knew that his body wasn’t about to be helping him with making a swift getaway, and James was bigger than him and he didn't even _know him_ and if he did any of those things he could get himself into a lot of trouble. He just nodded, the movement jerky and unnatural, swallowing around a painful lump in his throat as he felt himself being stretched open. It stung, and he let out a little whimper, arms curling up spastically, earning a sickening grin from the man above him. 

“I know, I know. I’ve gotta get you ready for the real thing. Much bigger,” he gloated, and Brian coughed as the air went out of his lungs. He couldn’t even sit up and look to see if he was exaggerating, and he felt his stomach swell with fear. He remembered hearing from a talk at Uni that if you were being raped you should put your fingers down your throat and try to be sick, it might put them off and save you from a potential attacker. Only, Brian wasn’t being raped. He was being fucked, well almost, yeah, but he’d walked into his flat on his own terms and had kissed him back and helped him get his clothes off, and you couldn’t just say _no_ when you were that far into it, could you? Besides, whatever he’d given him _was_ making it a lot easier, so he was right about that, even if his stomach was churning and he wanted to throw him off and run all the way home, if his legs would ever work again.

“James,” his voice was almost pleading, and he could feel himself being painfully stretched out, and the world was going a bit blurry.  
“Mm… I know, feels good hm?” he grinned, moving his attention back to Brian’s face, tongue suddenly in his mouth again, and Brian almost bit it off.

“No, stop, I feel ill,” he tried again, hoping that maybe the threat of a lapful of vomit _would_ scare him off. It didn’t, and he let out a little noise that he didn’t mean to make as he saw him reaching out for a condom and rolling it on carefully.

“Don’t worry baby, you’re all ready for me,” James promised, and Brian wished he wasn’t being so fucking _sweet_ about it, because he didn’t want this anymore, and he felt scared and nauseous and panicky and all the things he shouldn’t have been feeling considering what was happening and how the first part of the night had gone.

“Don’t be nervous,” James hushed, taking his wrists and pinning his hands above his head, oh, no, _no_ Brian did _not_ like that at all, and he panicked at how easily he sank into him. He watched as James’ head tipped back and his mouth hung open as he bottomed out, and Brian panicked that he was going to be sick.

“Stop,” his voice was pathetic and tiny, and he doubted he’d even have heard him, he looked too lost in himself as he started to move. That hurt, Brian noticed, and he didn’t realise he was clenching around him until he started feeling a tearing pain.

“Fuck, baby, you’re so nice and tight for me,” James groaned, breath sticky and hot and panting against his neck, and Brian could feel tears snaking down his temples and into his hair. He let out a yelp as one of his legs was lifted up unnaturally high, secured in the crook of the older mans elbow, and he felt as useless as a ragdoll, letting out a little sob.

“I know, I know it’s a lot,” James grunted, and Brian let out another sob of surprise as his hand reached down to curl around his cock. Brian let out a shuddering breath as he felt himself swelling in James’ hand, twitching with interest, even though Brian wanted to be sick at the very thought. He just shook his head, trying not to look him in the eye as he let out a little moan, not wanting to admit to himself what was happening, that he was here, in another man’s bed, being fucked raw, against his own wishes, and he was actually about to come from it. He could feel precum dribbling from his slit, being swiped away by James’ thumb, and his breath caught in his throat as he felt his stomach clench and his legs go stiff.

“Yeah, that’s it baby, cum for me,” James gritted, and Brian could have sank through the bed, through the floor, right into the fiery pits of hell when he actually _did._ He heard a guttural groan, feeling James tense up and lose his rhythm, wincing as he went slack on top of him, thanking every god he could think of that he’d at least been wearing a condom so he didn’t have to feel him release inside of him. That would have had him howling right then and there. The weight of the larger man was almost crushing on top of him, and he let out a little sound when he finally rolled off him and pulled out, leaving him feeling hollow and sick and disgusting.

“That was great baby,” James’ voice sounded distant and muffled, and he couldn’t make his eyes focus on anything in the room, eyelids slipping shut. He felt a mixture of disgust, and disappointment and something else he couldn't place when he felt a pillow being slipped under his head, and soft blankets tucked up around his shoulders and another too long kiss being pressed to his lips before the world went dark.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cws for this chapter include  
> Vomiting  
> Minor self harm  
> Panic attacks  
> Slurs  
> Kind of victim blaming I guess?  
> Idk I just rlly don't want this story to trigger anyone soz

Brian’s headache woke him up in the morning. He felt his hands going up to his face instinctively when he felt a throbbing pain behind his eyes, only being exacerbated by the light streaming in through the gap in the curtains, landing right between Brian’s eyes.

“Fuck,” he mumbled gruffly, looking around, waiting for his eyes to adjust. He’d definitely had too much to drink the night before, and he felt his stomach churning. He needed some panadol and a fry up and about two litres of water and he was sure he’d feel much better, but until then he was pretty much knackered. He could smell eggs and toast, praying that Deaky hadn’t been drinking too much and had gotten up and made them breakfast out of the goodness of his heart. He didn’t think he could handle any more of Freddie’s cooking, or Roger’s for that matter. His eyes finally focused, and he reached behind him to tug the curtain shut properly. Only, his curtains weren’t green, they were a funny pattern that Freddie had chosen and sewed for him because Freddie had thought of him when he'd seen the fabric at a flea market, and he didn’t have a window behind his bed, either. And, he didn’t have a queen bed, he and Rog only had singles, two doubles wouldn’t fit in the room, and Roger had been known to sneak company into Freddie and Deaky’s king when they were out for the night, and, oh. The previous night came flooding back to him dizzyingly fast, and he fell back against the headboard with a thump. Oh, god. He was still _here_. The door opened quickly, and he saw the man that had made his life a living hell the previous night standing in the doorway with a kind smile on his face, and a plate of eggs on toast.

“Hello love,” he greeted with a too perfect smile, “feeling a bit rough?” Rough was an understatement. The man - James, he reminded himself - was crossing the floor and plopping down on the bed with him. He didn't move away.

“Not much of a cook,” his crooning Scottish voice came, “but, I figure you can’t go too far wrong with eggs on toast.” Why was he being so nice? He shouldn’t have been nice, really, he shouldn’t have been making him breakfast and speaking softly and tracing patterns on his knee, looking like he was in a cologne advertisement, all stubble and flowing hair and barely buttoned shirt at 7 in the morning, which was ridiculous really, and Brian shouldn’t have been thinking about him that way, after what had happened. He hurt all over, especially his arse, which made sense, and his limbs were achy and his shoulders were tense and he felt like he was going to spew liquor all over his bed sheets. He remembered then why he’d laid there and taken it, and it was because he’d been drugged, and he felt dirty. James looked at him expectantly, holding the plate out towards him, and he took it with a touch too much trepidation.

“Don’t worry, nothing in it this time,” he said with a wink, and Brian’s heart dropped. He’d made a fucking _joke_ about it, like it was nothing, and for a minute it made Brian wonder if maybe it was nothing and he had just overreacted. He’d done it before, for sure, and he was panicky and ridiculous sometimes, and his friends never hesitated to point it out, and he was sure if Roger or Freddie were here right now they’d laugh it off and tell him he was being oversensitive. He'd never had a one night stand or gone home with anyone from a bar before. Maybe that's just what happened? He decided it probably happened all the time and found himself taking a bite of the toast before he could think about it anymore, earning a warm smile from the blonde.

“Listen, I’ve got work in an hour but last night was a lot of fun,” he spoke up, causing Brian to almost drop his plate.

“We can maybe, well, an hour is a while,” he hinted, and the food in Brian’s mouth turned to cardboard and wouldn't go down his throat. Brian shook his head, a little too quickly, noting how James’ face fell, and he felt guilt creep up in his chest.

“Sorry, no I-I have work too, god, I forgot. I'll be late, I’ve got to get going,” Brian lied, fumbling for his clothes, pulling them on as he forced the rest of his breakfast down. His head was swimming as he stood up, and he had to grab the headboard to steady himself as he found his trainers, not bothering to lace them up properly.

“Oh, that’s alright gorgeous,” Brian cringed at the pet name, feeling terribly unwell as he wondered why he’d lead him on, why he’d let him do that to him, why he hadn't done more to leave when he wanted to and why he'd come to his flat in the first place, despite knowing that this was exactly what was going to happen.

“Give me your number, I’ll ring you later?” Brian found himself scribbling down the phone number for their flat, for whatever stupid reason, and let himself be kissed at the door. He tasted quite strongly of cigarettes this time, and he got away as quickly as he could, only just remembering to grab his wallet on the way out.

Brian didn’t smoke, but he wondered if he might as well take it up now, his mouth tasting so strongly of cigarettes that he wasn't sure it would ever go away. He was shaking so badly, he hoped that nobody else noticed, and he wanted something that would calm him down, contemplating actually ducking into a petrol station for a pack of smokes and a lighter. He took a few deep breaths instead, but they didn’t work, and neither would smoking, he rationalised. His stomach hurt badly, and he felt nauseous, and he couldn’t figure out why he'd actually sat there and eaten breakfast when he should have been out of there before he was awake. He was sure everyone he passed on the street knew exactly what he’d been up to, he might as well have pinned a scarlet A to his coat, and he could feel them staring. He had to walk a little strangely so that it didn’t hurt as badly, which just earned more stares, and he could feel his stomach rising in his throat.

Shit.

He only just managed to duck into the alley behind his flat in time, getting violently sick by the bins. He heaved, outstretched hand finding the wall for balance, keeping his eyes squeezed shut the entire time, not wanting to see the eggs coming back up. He managed to get a bit in his hair, unsurprisingly, and he had to open his eyes eventually. He grimaced when he saw the mess he’d made, pitying the poor sod who would eventually have to hose it down, subconsciously trying to chalk it up to having a hangover, blaming it on all he’d had to drink the night before. He was a little bit of a lightweight, after all. He made sure his eyes weren’t too red, and his hair was as sick-free as he could make it before finally plucking up the courage to go back to the flat. He fumbled for his keys in his pocket as he reached the top of the first flight of stairs, managing to pull them out and guide them into the lock with a shaky hand, praying that nobody was up. His prayers went unanswered as the second the door swung open, he saw a blonde mop pop up from behind the couch.

“You dirty whore,” Roger grinned, voice sounding a little hoarse, but no less cheeky. Brian felt his heart sink a little at that, not entirely sure why, knowing he was no more immune to Roger’s teasing than any of them. He remembered, though, after a moment. His stomach soured again, feeling a mix of guilt and shame and disgust, along with the overwhelming fear that he was being a complete baby about it all. He just shook his head at Roger, making his way into the bathroom. He needed a shower. The water was a touch too hot, but he didn’t care. The scalding felt extra cleansing, and he probably deserved a bit of pain for being such an idiot.

He needed to fucking snap out of it, have a shower, brush it off, and never, ever, see James again. He shampooed his hair one, two, three times, it still smelled of sick and cigarettes after the third rinse, but any more and he was sure it would fall out, moving onto the rest of his body with a bar of soap and a washcloth. He scrubbed his face until it felt tight and dry and raw, letting the scalding water run into his mouth so he could swill away the taste of sick and smoke. That didn't work either, though, so he grabbed his toothbrush, using almost half the tube of toothpaste until his tongue was numb and his arm was sore from brushing. He ran the washcloth over his arms, pausing at his wrists. They were starting to bruise a little bit, which was ridiculous, he hadn’t held him that hard. God, even his body was overreacting now. He scrubbed over his wrists extra hard, just to be sure it wasn’t dirt. It wasn’t, and he sighed. The others were definitely going to think he was getting into some weird kinky situations with a man he’d only just met. Fantastic.

He found himself wincing as he scrubbed his neck, having to poke his head out from behind the shower curtain and look in the mirror to see why it hurt so much, and saw purple looking love bites littering his neck, as well as an actual bite mark on his collarbone that he didn’t remember getting. Fuck. He scrubbed over them angrily, willing them to go away, furious with himself for letting him do that. He knew he shouldn’t have, he shouldn't have even been there in the first place, but he had been there, and he had let him, and now he was going to be getting looks and questions and comments for days. He ran the cloth down his chest and belly, finding his chest swelling with panic as his hand moved toward his groin. Alright, now just what the fuck was that about? What, he couldn’t even touch himself now? He shook his head, grabbing himself, just to get clean, he told himself, feeling ridiculous for having to tell himself anything, his hand starting to shake the longer he held it there. He cursed at himself out loud before letting go, swiping in between his thighs instead, almost gagging as the washcloth came away a bit sticky, dropping it on the floor of the bathtub like it was cursed. He didn’t even bother with his arse, knowing it was going to be painful either way, only spreading his legs a little to let the running water clean it instead. By the time he moved down to wash his legs, the water was running cold. He let it beat down on his body for a moment, shivering, feeling the bizarre yet compulsive need to punish himself, before reaching out and wrenching the taps off angrily because he was being a complete idiot about all of this.

He examined himself in the mirror, feeling the urge to punch it, taking a deep breath. He wasn’t going to do something that rash, it would end with a sore hand, maybe a trip to the hospital, and his flatmates being very cross with him. He just dried his hair with a little more vigour than he normally would, wrapping his towel around his waist and trying to cross the flat to his room as quickly as he could without making it obvious that he was avoiding everyone. He caught a wolf whistle from Freddie, which made his skin crawl, slamming the door a bit too hard and kicking his bed frame. Ow, fuck. That was a stupid idea, and he swore loudly, hearing a laugh from the kitchen. Fucking pricks. He pulled on a clean pair of underwear, and an almost clean shirt, having to forgo jeans for tracksuit pants, having nothing else to wear. It was laundry day, then. Only he could barely stomach breathing right now, let alone lugging a garbage bag full of dirty laundry down two flights of stairs to fight with a shitty coin operated washer, and then have to check them in the dryer every ten minutes, then carry them back up and put them away, and he found himself crawling into bed before he could do anything about it. He sat and stared at the wall for a very long time.

His thoughts were swirling his head, making his heart beat too fast and his breath come too quickly and his stomach hurt again. He couldn’t stop it when tears sprang up in his eyes for seemingly no reason, and he didn’t try to, letting them silently roll down his cheeks. He knew he was being a baby about everything, but he thought once he had a good cry and stopped feeling so hungover and joked about it with his friends he’d be fine. The cry hadn’t worked, and he couldn’t find any more tears after about five minutes, but at least his stomach didn’t hurt anymore. His thoughts were a little bit clearer, too, and his head wasn’t spinning, so he thought he’d better suck it up and brave the land of the living, aka, the rest of the flat. Three heads whipped around when they heard the door to Brian and Roger’s bedroom click shut.

“Brian! You’ve come back to us you lovable slut!” Freddie exclaimed. That was a new one. Brian just forced a smile and crossed the kitchen to plop down on the couch, closer to the armrest than to Roger, earning a confused look. 

“You’re looking well,” Deaky commented with a wry grin. Great, they were all at it, then. He supposed he’d deserved that, Rog had copped it a lot worse last Saturday after his walk of shame at 11.30 in the morning, wearing nothing but a pair of red gym shorts and some socks. He should thank his lucky stars they were going easy on him, they could have been real pricks about it.

“Brian, oh my god please,” Freddie begged all of a sudden, “he was so fit you have to give us all the horrible details.” Brian felt his heart sink to his stomach, and he felt his ears burning red.

“Ooh, look at him,” Roger cooed, elbowing him in the arm. He was silent for too long, and he could feel three sets of eyes burning into him.

“It was… it was fun,” he lied, “I don’t want to kiss and tell.”

“Oh come on Brian! Don’t be so frigid!” Freddie was practically begging, leaning over the armrest of the sofa, feet in Deaky's lap, reaching out towards him like he wanted to grab him and shake the story out of him.

“It’s… he was very sweet, and very good looking and we just,” he didn’t really know what to say. He didn’t particularly want to relive the details, but they were pushing him a bit.

“It’s funny, really, he gave me like, a special drink to relax me so I barely felt anything,” he punctuated it with an unnatural sounding laugh, which had Freddie and Roger practically doubling over.

“Sounds like he knew what to do with you Bri, you could do with a bit of relaxing,” Roger laughed, looking like he was going to explode with joy, and Brian felt like he was going to be sick again. He hadn’t really expected much, but he hadn’t expected him to treat it like that much of a joke. Roger was laughing away with Freddie, they’d moved the conversation onto something else now, and Deaky was giving him an uncomfortable look. He didn’t like that at all. He clapped his hands on his thighs, standing up with a wince.

“Laundry day, who’s coming?” he asked. Freddie and Roger weren’t listening, and Deaky shot him a nod.

“About time I stopped turning my underwear inside out,” he joked, standing up with him. Brian piled his clothes into a plastic garbage bag, meeting Deaky back in the living room to walk down to the basement laundry with him, a few steps behind Brian the whole way down.

They did their laundry in silence, Brian wordlessly handing Deaky a coin when he heard him swearing and patting down his pockets, and he nodded a thanks. It was only when their laundry, spread out between three machines, was spinning away and they were silently debating on whether to go back to their flat or stay and read bad magazines on the rickety plastic chairs that Deaky spoke up.

“You okay?” he asked, his voice quiet and measured like he’d been thinking about what he was going to say for a while. He probably had. Brian just nodded.

“Okay,” he said simply, with a nod, not wanting to push it. He nodded his head toward the stairs, and Brian followed him back up to their flat, going straight to his room and shutting the door behind him, crawling under the covers and pulling a pillow over his head to drown out the sound of Freddie and Roger's latest screaming match, doing his best to fall asleep so that he could dream of nothing for a while.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CWs include  
> OCD behaviour (?)  
> Panic attacks  
> Vomiting (emetophobes soz)

Brian woke up much, much later than he’d meant to. It had been just past nine when he’d gotten home, and had gone 10.30 when he’d gone down to do his laundry, but now the sun was making him uncomfortably warm as it beat down on him through the window onto his bundle of blankets, and he was sweating. He noticed straight away that his stomach was hurting again, and that he had to squint his eyes hard against the afternoon sun. He was made aware that all three of his flatmates were home, he could hear slightly raised voices of two, and a third, almost muted, tired sounding voice, coming from the living room, and the TV being turned louder, then quieter, and then roaringly loud, and the muted voice became suddenly raised. He just laughed and rolled his eyes, managing to sit up, noting two tall piles of clean, folded laundry, and he could have burst into tears. Deaky, he thought.

He thought about going out and sitting with the others, letting his mind go numb with shitty TV and his friends loud voices, but he didn’t think he could stomach that just yet. Instead, he approached the pile of clothes, taking them one by one and slipping them into his drawers carefully. It took a long time, but it was strangely therapeutic and gave him a good enough reason to be hanging out in his room by himself. He felt his stomach drop when he put the last t shirt away, and turned to look around the room. Rogers side was a shambles, and was kind of leaking out onto his side, that wasn’t surprising, and he thought about putting his clothes away too. He thought he’d probably yell at him for going through ‘his stuff’, even though Brian knew what kind of person Roger was so nothing would surprise him. He also knew that it was pretty much all clothes and shoes, a few blankets, more than likely his glasses at the bottom of the pile somewhere, probably hoping that they’d break ‘accidentally’ so he would have a real excuse not to wear them besides ‘I forgot.’ Then he thought ‘fuck it’, Roger could be fake annoyed with him all he liked, he was sick of living in a cesspit, and got to cleaning the rest of the room anyway.

Brian was right, it was just clothes - 99% of them somewhere between dirty and unsalvageable - a thick woollen blanket, a pair of ridiculous boots he'd almost broken his leg stepping on a few nights before, his glasses, of course, some crisp packets and gum wrappers and cigarette butts even though he wasn't supposed to smoke in there, half the teaspoons and plates and mugs that had gone missing from the kitchen, and finally, he reached the carpet. It needed a good hoover, but he'd have to go out into the flat for that, so it could wait, and he turned his attention to the desk. It was much the same way, Roger had been using it as clothes storage instead of letting Brian use it to study. He’d complained for a little while and just moved everything to the floor when he wanted to use it, but then Roger had started getting moody about him putting his ‘good trainers’ on the floor and had started piling more and more shit on there to spite him, and Brian had realised he was fighting a losing battle and had given up and started using the dining table instead, which wasn’t ideal. He’d get distracted by the TV, even though he sat facing away from it on purpose, but they liked watching game shows and he knew all the answers so he’d yell them out instead of studying, and they’d all get annoyed that he ' _wasn’t even fucking watching you twat,'_ so he’d closed his books and turned around and watched 'just until the end of the episode', then something else had come on, and he’d gotten distracted, and ended up burning the entire night and showed up to his exams under prepared and stressed out. Fuck that. The desk was there for fucking studying, and he was going to use it for that.

He was getting irrationally angry about it now, practically throwing his things off the desk, hurling Roger’s precious phone book at the wall next to his bed, aggressively folding the stray clothes and lining up his stupid shoes nice and precisely, toes just peeking out from under his bed, wanting to punch through the bottoms of the drawers as he put away his stupid flares. He straightened up the books and papers, replacing Rog’s phone book on the little shelf, wiping down the layer of dust from around the edges, and then from the windowsill, and then from all the other surfaces in the room. He took a few minutes to make sure his red special was lined up completely straight and level on its stand. He thought about playing for a moment, to calm himself down, but when he found that he didn't want to, it just made him more upset. He even made both their beds, tucking the sheets in far too tightly, taking a touch too long to make sure they were smooth and the patterns were lined up. Roger was right, he was fucking neurotic, and he was definitely going to go up the wall when he saw how thoroughly he’d cleaned the room, which was fucking stupid because he hadn’t even nagged him about it, or even asked him to lift a finger to help, and he was getting angry again. Jesus christ, he was never drinking again if it made him have mood swings this bad.

He sat down, on the desk chair, not the bed, he didn’t want to mess up his hard work, looking around the room. Maybe he’d been a little bit thorough, maybe he hadn’t needed to refold their underwear, maybe he hadn’t needed to alphabetise their textbooks, but it had wasted half the afternoon and hadn’t had to sit around answering any more questions, and was only disturbed when his stomach had growled and reminded him that he had thrown up breakfast and slept through lunch. He tried to ignore it, but he was getting a bit light headed, and knew he shouldn’t neglect it for much longer. He felt strangely shameful as he opened the door, wandering out into the kitchen, hardly earning a glance from any of the three. Freddie was busy over the stove, working on something that actually didn’t smell too bad, and he wanted to lean over and say something to him, but he felt awkward and distant around him, which he’d never felt in his life. It made his heart hurt a little bit, and he forced himself not to think about it, digging through the fridge for an apple or a cheese slice or something to tide him over until Freddie’s pot of whatever was done, and he felt a hand slap on his arse which made him jump forward and hit his head on the top of the fridge.

“Fuck, ow! Thanks, Fred,” he groaned, feeling his heart beating much too quickly for his liking. It was just Freddie, for christs sake. He _knew_ it was him in the kitchen, he'd _seen_ him when he'd come in, and he was always smacking Brian’s arse. It was almost a compulsion at this point, and he should have known to expect it when he was in a room with him, especially bending over like that. He was almost angry with himself for getting so worked up over it.

“You’ll spoil your dinner,” Freddie’s voice was loud and energetic and full of laughter, which was a bit jarring, and Brian let the fridge door close on its own.

“What are you making?” his voice rasped, surprising himself with how bad it sounded, and Freddie frowned.

“It was going to be a shepherds pie but we haven’t any potatoes so it’s turned into more of a stew,” he lifted the spoon, letting the mixture drop off it and back into the pot, “are you alright, darling? You sound terrible. Are you getting sick?” The spoon was back in the pot and Freddie was wiping his hands on a tea towel and reaching forward with outstretched hands, one aiming Brian’s forehead, the other for his cheek. He dodged his touch, which had Freddie raising an eyebrow, but he thankfully didn’t say anything about it.

“I’m alright, throats just scratchy,” he promised, and Freddie frowned.

“I’ll make you some tea, go and sit down,” he said, gesturing to the living room where Deaky and Roger were sitting, and Brian’s chest tightened. He didn’t really want to, but he knew it would be bizarre if he said no, so he sat down, on the vacant couch, hoping nobody would move over to sit with him. Roger was in one of his moods, Brian could feel it, the air almost thick with it, and Deaky was being deliberately uninteresting and quiet so he wouldn’t spark anything up. Roger would fight over the stupidest little things when he was like this, and none of them were in the mood to engage.

He earned a glare from Roger, nice, just what he needed, and focused his eyes on the TV.

“You’ve really just been in there moping for this fucking long?” his voice came out of the blue, sounding very annoyed and gruff, and Brian knew he was looking for a fight.

“I’ve been sleeping, and cleaning,” he said, wincing at the last part, because Roger was up like a rocket, clearly excited to be given something he could be cross about, throwing the door to their room open with a wild, over dramatic gasp.

“Brian! What the fuck!?” his voice shattered the blissful quiet, making Brian’s heartbeat quicken and his stomach tighten.

“You _would_ spend a Saturday afternoon _cleaning,_ you fucking spaz,” he spat, and Brian watched as he tore the sheets off his bed and bundled them on the floor, and Deaky shot him an exhausted look, shaking his head, warning him not to engage. He didn’t have to worry, Brian was far too tired to bother getting into it, even though it made his chest hurt a little bit when he heard papers and books hitting the floor.

“He’s been like this _all. Day._ ” Deaky said quietly, drawing out the last few words, letting his shoulders drop. Brian just rolled his eyes as he saw a trainer being launched into the kitchen and hitting the side of the counter.

“Thanks, by the way, for the washing,” he added. Deaky’s eyebrows shot up.

“Hm? Oh, no that was Freddie, actually,” he smiled, and Brian frowned, surprised.

“Oh. Thanks Freddie!” he called, earning a sing-songy,

“Don’t worry about it darling,” from the kitchen,” you looked exhausted, you've been working so hard,” he added as he brought over his tea and set it down on the coffee table. He dropped a kiss on the top of his head, making Brian tense, fuck, he wished he’d stop doing that, and Brian convinced himself that he needed to use the loo so he’d have an excuse to hide so he could calm himself down a bit.

He did calm down, a little bit anyway, and he was content taking his time to potter around and screw the nut back into the tap in the shower properly, it had been annoying him for days, before washing his hands, making sure to be thorough, deciding after one rinse that he hadn’t been thorough _enough,_ pumping out a bit more soap and going over his hands again. Then, he rinsed too early and realised he’d missed under his nails, having to re-lather and have another go. After three times, he decided they were definitely clean, and they felt a bit raw, and he changed the hand towel to make sure he wasn’t going to get his hands dirty again straight away, avoiding the mirror for reasons he didn’t want to think about, before deciding he’d calmed down enough to go back into the room with the others. He earned a sheepish look from Roger, and a concerned one from Freddie.

“Are you alright darling? You were in there for a long time,” Freddie asked, voice low, holding two bowls of his stew.

“Yeah, yeah I’m alright,” he nodded, and Freddie shifted down the couch to make room for him, putting the bowls on the coffee table.

“It’s okay if you’re not hungry,” Brian must have looked worse than he’d thought, then, “we can put it in the fridge and you can have it later.”

Brian shook his head. He was very hungry, or he had been when he’d left his room, but now his stomach was churning just a bit, he must have been getting sick, and he didn’t know if he could stomach the whole bowl even if it did smell good.

“No, no I’m fine. Starving,” he lied, becoming a little bit concerned about how much he was starting to lie to his friends, picking up the bowl.

Freddie’s cooking had improved a lot, even though he’d used fresh herbs which he hadn’t cut small enough so they were sticking in his teeth and tasted bitter when he bit down on them, but it was hearty enough to fill him up with only half the bowl, having to set it back down when he started feeling sick again. He saw Freddie kick Roger in the shin, and he shot him a scowl.

“I’m fucking sorry,” he said suddenly, and Brian looked up, a bit confused.

“What?”

“About the room. It was _very nice_ of you to tidy up,” he said, sounding very forced, and Brian rolled his eyes.

“It’s fine Rog, I shouldn’t have. It’s your room and you can have it however you want,” he sighed, just going through the motions at this point, knowing his apology hadn’t been sincere anyway. He saw Roger shoot Deaky a pointed look, and he rolled his eyes.

“Fuck’s sake Roger, you should be over the moon. He cleaned up that _pit_ you call a bedroom and you’re being a baby about it because you don’t like change,” Deaky said analytically, and Roger just rolled his eyes.

“I don’t like my stuff being put away in weird fucking spots, and I don’t like my bedsheets being tucked in so tightly it feels like I’m in an institution,” he grumbled. Brian just smiled, not really paying too much attention.

“Your phone book is on the desk,” he said simply.

“Oh,” Roger sounded like he’d had the air let out of him, and he nodded, opening his mouth again quickly.

“Trainers are under the bed,” he added, and Roger’s face relaxed.

“Cool,” he mumbled, and Brian wasn’t sure why everything felt so awkward, or why his heartbeat hadn’t really slowed down since last night, or why he was nauseous and sweaty and shaky, or why he just wanted to go back to bed. He didn’t know the answer to any of those questions, so he just excused himself, going back to his room, noting that Roger’s bed was made again, sloppily, and the books were back on the desk, spread out messily, Freddie must have told him off, but he ignored it, climbing back under the covers, feeling exhausted.

 

Brian didn’t sleep well at all. He kept having the same dream when he fell asleep. He was trying to get home from work but he kept losing his way, every street he thought he knew turned to a dead end, and he was getting further and further away from his flat. He couldn’t call out when he tried to, and then he was being grabbed from behind and held down, hands behind his back, but he couldn’t turn around to see who was there. Every time he managed to turn his head, the sensation went away, but when he tried to move they came back again, and he woke up in a cold sweat, his chest heaving. Roger’s snoring brought him back into the room, and he decided he might as well try to study if he was going to be awake anyway. He didn’t particularly want to go back to sleep, and he doubted he could. Every time he shut his eyes his heart started beating too fast, and besides, Roger’s snoring was in top form, so he didn’t really want to lay there and get more and more annoyed with him. It wasn’t his fault, and he'd never bothered bringing it up because he couldn’t do anything about it anyway.

He eyed the desk, knowing that the lamp would wake Roger up, and he didn’t feel up to dealing with him right now, blindly grabbing his textbooks and a pen and going out to the kitchen, setting himself up at the dining table. The microwave said 6.03, great, because he really needed to be up that early on a _Sunday,_ but he was, so he sucked it up and got into trying to go over some reading. He couldn’t focus too well, he was still exhausted and his mind was wandering.  
  
He’d tried his best to not think about Friday night, and he’d done an okay job until now, but he could hear Roger’s soft snores, and Freddie and Deaky’s bed creaking softly every now and then, and he really was just alone with his thoughts, and he’d had too long to think about it to not have come to a conclusion yet. He’d been an idiot, was the only thing he managed to gather from his racing thoughts. He shouldn’t have gone home with him, he shouldn’t have accepted his drink. He’d been out to have _one_ drink, he’d made it very clear to everybody, including himself, that he only wanted one. Nobody had talked him into going to the bar to get more, nobody had talked him into taking the drink and dancing with James, he’d done that himself, and nobody had talked him into going home with him, either. He’d gone there because he wanted to, because he'd wanted to have sex with him, and he hadn’t left when he’d wanted to either. Besides, he’d had worse bruises from babysitting his cousins, and he’d been so lovely to him the entire time. He probably thought he was speaking louder than he really was and James hadn’t even _heard_ him when he’d told him to stop. Roger was right. He did need to be relaxed. Besides, they’d both had a good time, James had told him he'd enjoyed it when he’d woken up, and he’d come, which meant he had to have enjoyed it too. Then it was settled. He’d gone there, of his own accord, with the intention of having sex, and he had. Everything else, he thought, was his fault.

Deaky had gotten up about an hour later, the microwave confirmed that it was now 7.15, and he looked surprised to see Brian was already awake. He just looked at him, crossing the room to duck into the bathroom, and Brian realised he hadn’t read a single word of his book yet. He went back to trying to concentrate, but that wasn’t working either, and he felt useless. Maybe he _was_ ill. It would have been a nice excuse, if it were true, but he could explain everything away with his lack of sleep. Deaky came out of the bathroom, drying his hands on his shirt, raising an eyebrow.

“Getting some studying in while Rog is asleep?” he grinned, and Brian just nodded.

“Something like that,” he replied, shutting the textbook when Deaky switched the kettle on. That meant he was up properly now, and he’d probably want to at least chat, so there was no use trying to keep reading. It was just depressing him anyway.

“Tea?” Deaky offered, holding up Brian’s favourite mug, and he shook his head.

“No thanks,” he replied, surprising them both. He didn’t really feel like having anything to eat or drink, and for some reason he felt guilty about making Deaky make it for him.

“You sure?” Deaky asked, a hint of concern evident in his voice, making Freddie’s tea to his exact specifications mindlessly, he’d done it a million times before. Brian just nodded, letting out a little sigh, and Deaky filled his mug anyway.

“You need one mate,” he placed the mug down in front of Brian with a quiet tap, black tea, plain, bag in, and Brian was suddenly grateful that he’d made him one anyway, thanking him with a nod and wrapping both his hands around it, sipping it carefully. It didn’t do a whole lot to wake him up, but it was comforting and tasted good and made his stomach warm, and he calmed down a little bit. Deaky disappeared into his room for a bit, and Brian heard Freddie’s loud, over-dramatic yawn, and the bed creak again, and he smiled. Freddie always seemed to cheer him up, even though he wasn’t sure why he was still in such a dark, panicky mood, and he hoped he’d get up soon. He was drooping over the table, he’d really only had a few hours sleep in about three days, and he had to get up to find some panadol for his headache before migrating to the couch, hoping to not have to move from his spot for the rest of the day.

He did, though, when he realised he hadn’t been to the loo since last night, wondering why he hadn’t noticed yet, shuffling across the floor to the bathroom and locking himself in. He found himself having to wash his hands more than once again, wash, rinse, three times, that was enough, considering having a shower. He felt greasy and a bit sweaty from his strange dreams, but he didn’t really think he had the energy to shower, remembering he needed to shave. He had nothing to do for the rest of the day, unless they decided on an impromptu rehearsal, but they didn't have any gigs booked for at least a month, so he doubted it, and he had Mondays off, so he didn’t need to worry about being clean right now. He also remembered that Freddie had just woken up, and Roger would be awake soon, and it would be a bit mean to lock himself in the bathroom for more than half an hour before they had a chance to use the loo. He opened the door to a quiet flat, living room empty still, deciding to plop back down on the sofa, reading yesterday's newspaper and finishing his tea. Freddie came out of his room about twenty minutes later, pausing on his way across the floor to lean over the back of the couch and wrap his arms around Brian’s shoulders, which made him feel warm inside for a moment, tightening the hug for a second at the end, warm and sleepy and loveable, before letting himself into the bathroom.

Roger didn’t wake up until almost 1 in the afternoon, apparently he’d gone out after Brian had gone to bed last night, but had been back before Freddie and Deaky had gone to sleep, claiming he had been too tired to stay out, which had worried them both. Brian found himself zoning out of conversation a lot, only coming back into the room to make a comment when he was spoken to, or to shake his head along with the rest of them when Deaky mimed playing his bass with a questioning look, or to decide what he wanted for lunch, his mind annoyingly drifting back to Friday night, analysing every movement he’d made over and over even though he knew there was no point. He’d washed the dishes that has been festering in the sink over the weekend as well, earning a confused look from Freddie, but he paid him no mind. He was actually good at cleaning, it was rhythmic and process driven and he could choose whether to focus or let his mind wander and still do something productive at the same time. He made sure they were immaculate, drying them carefully and putting them away one by one, drawing it out as long as he could, not really wanting to go back to sitting with his friends, feeling frustratingly withdrawn and floaty. He found himself washing his hands again, wash, rinse, wash, rinse, wash rinse, before drying them on a clean tea towel, noting a confused frown from Deaky when he heard the taps turning on and off rhythmically.

“Alright?” he called over his shoulder, looking almost annoyed, and Brian nodded sheepishly.

“Sorry,” he mumbled, running the tea towel absently over the counter top, getting an eye roll from Freddie.

“Stop being anxious and come sit down,” he said sternly, analysing him frighteningly well just from the way he was standing and looking a bit vacant, and he nodded and joined them back on the couch. Freddie suggested scrabble, and Brian agreed even though he couldn’t think of anything worse right now, not having the energy to be confrontational. He could play along and make simple words and not really care if he lost, almost hoping he would so he wouldn’t have to listen to any of them whining about it. Freddie basically jumped for joy, grabbing the board and setting it up.

 

Brian didn’t win a single round, which was just fine, really, but the others were getting a little bit concerned. He realised he’d maybe have to actually use his brain if he wanted to avoid a full on interrogation, which he absolutely didn’t need right now, and he managed to win a single round by piggybacking off of Roger’s “car” and adding “toon”, earning an annoyed noise from Roger as he picked up a triple word score.

“Bullshit,” Roger grumbled, he’d been in a dark mood since last night, and Brian didn’t know if he could really handle an outburst right now, so he went back to losing. Scrabble got them through the afternoon until Deaky started arguing with Freddie over buying dinner, Freddie wanted a curry, and Deaky thought they should have leftovers because they’d hardly made rent last month and had plenty of food in the fridge. Freddie won, of course he did, getting the paper menu off the fridge triumphantly, prompting Brian to wake up from his daze and figure out what he wanted for dinner. _Nothing_ , he thought, but he knew he’d better have something, so he picked the cheapest vegetarian item on the menu, and Freddie and Deaky headed out to pick it up.

“You still sulking?” Roger’s voice came, bitter and accusing after not really having spoken to him all day, and Brian wasn’t really surprised that the first thing he’d said had been a bit mean. It would be one of those weeks, then.

“Are you?” Brian shot back, and Roger went quiet, face souring a bit.

“Someone's feeling a bit fucking precious,” he said under his breath, getting up to make himself some tea, not offering Brian any. Didn’t matter, he wouldn’t have taken him up on it if he had. He came back, sitting away from him, which stung a little bit, and he just tried his best to focus on whatever Freddie had left on the TV.

They were back with food after forty five silent minutes, Freddie waving a flyer for a local concert around that Brian checked out disinterestedly, taking the plastic fork and Styrofoam container that Deaky handed him, picking his way through about a quarter of his meal. Roger also seemed to pick through his, looking uninterested, almost a bit disgusted, and pushed it away with his nose turned up.

“No good?” Deaky asked, watching him out of the corner of his eye. Roger just shook his head, burrowing down into the side of the couch, pulling his legs up beside him and folding his arms over himself. He didn’t look great, a bit peaky, his heavy eyelids drooping, and he seemed to be wilting by the time Top of the Pops came on at 6.30. He just seemed to get worse from there.

“Alright, Rog?” Freddie asked eventually, once the 8 o'clock news came on, sounding worried but kind, leaning over to gently tap his fingers on his thighs to get his attention.

“Have a tummy ache,” was all Roger replied, looking a little bit pale, getting up and going straight to his room, slamming the door behind him. That woke them all up a bit, and Freddie sat up, looking worried, collecting the half empty take away containers and putting them in the fridge for later.

“I’ll go see if he’s alright,” Freddie said eventually, and Brian let out a breath, nodding. He was grateful that that job hadn’t been delegated to him. He was finding it hard to be empathetic right now and he didn’t really want to be mean, but he knew if he had to go and see him when he was in a mood, that he probably would have been.

He heard hushed voices coming from his shared bedroom after Freddie went in there, slouching into the sofa, feeling ridiculously tired but thinking it would be weird if he went to bed now, when Freddie was in there doing his mothering routine.

He came out after about ten minutes, looking quite upset, leaning over the back of the sofa, resting his chin on the top of Deaky's head.

“Poor thing’s not feeling very well. He says he feels like he might vomit; Bri keep an ear out for him tonight won't you?” Freddie asked, reaching out a hand to give his shoulder a squeeze, and he looked up with a forced smile and nodded. He wouldn’t, which he felt terrible about, but he knew he was going be asleep the second his head hit the pillow. It was a good excuse for him to head to bed, claiming he’d read for a while and keep an ear out. He didn’t though, shutting his eyes without a word to Roger, drifting off.

 

He was jolted awake at around one in the morning, with the sound of a sickening retch, hearing Roger’s feet hit the floor, sprinting through the flat, and the bathroom door slamming shut. Shit, that probably wasn’t good. He found himself struggling to feel anything, though, which almost had him in tears from guilt alone. A week ago, he would have been up out of bed right away after him. Now, he was lying there, pretending he was still asleep, hoping that he’d get away with it and that Freddie wouldn’t be too upset with him, trying to block out the sound of poor Roger getting sick in the loo. He heard, thankfully, Freddie and Deaky’s door open, and socked feet padding across the carpet and into the bathroom. Then, Freddie’s voice came floating gently through the flat, of course it was Freddie, and he squeezed his eyes shut as he felt tears building, feeling completely ridiculous. Why the fuck was he even upset? Roger was the one that was sick, there was nothing wrong with him, and he was being selfish and stupid and _still_ feeling sorry for himself over something that had been his fault anyway. He was acting like he’d been _attacked_ or something, like he was having some kind of post traumatic experience, even though it had just been a dumb mistake. He squeezed his eyes shut when he heard his bedroom door open again, lying as still as he could.

He could hear Freddie fussing over Roger quietly, getting him tucked into bed and making sure he was alright, giving him a kiss on the forehead before telling him to make sure he came in if anything was wrong or if he got sick again. He put the small bin from their room beside his bed, giving him a long hug and another forehead kiss, managing to tear himself away after a few minutes to go and get back into bed with Deaky. Brian spared him a glance to see if he was okay, about to open his mouth to ask, but he already looked like he was asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm really surprised by the response this is getting tbh I wrote this mainly as an outlet to work through some stuff but I'm glad y'all are enjoying it! Your comments really make me smile so thank you! :)


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shorter chapter this time  
> Major CWs for  
> Self harm/cutting (quite graphic, as well as descriptions. If u think ur going to be triggered by this please do not read)  
> Panic attacks  
> Mentions of rape

Brian woke up pissed off. Well, he was okay until he saw that it was past 1 in the afternoon and Roger was still in bed. He shouldn’t have been angry, of course he shouldn’t have. Poor Rog wasn’t well, and he should have gotten up and made him some tea and checked if he was alright, but he just couldn’t find it in himself to show him even an inch of kindness. Monday’s were his day. Everyone else in the flat had classes at 9, and nobody was back until Deaky finished at 2, and Freddie and Roger didn’t get back until after 4, and a local basketball team used the gym at 5 so they couldn't rehearse even if they wanted to. It was like he had the whole day to himself to do whatever he felt like.

He really could have used a day to himself, too. He wouldn’t have minded if it was Deaky, or even Freddie, who’d had to stay home, because at least he could just hide in his room. But he shared a room with Roger, and he really just felt like having a private cry, which he sometimes did, but he didn’t want to be questioned by Roger or for him to tell the others because then there would definitely be questions he didn’t want to answer. He felt a bit gross, and decided he could cry in the shower if he wanted to, so he gathered his things and crept out of the room to try his best not to wake Roger up. He thought to leave the door unlocked, just in case Roger had to be sick again, not really in the mood to clean it off the carpet if he found himself locked out. It would be his job too, with everyone else out of the house.

The water was running cold again by the time he was out of the shower. He needed to stop doing that, it was going to drive up the water bill. He sat on the floor, feeling a bit weak and sick, hoping it hadn’t been him that had given Roger whatever he’d come down with. He didn’t cry, which annoyed him, he never could when he wanted to, and he didn’t clean himself either. He’d pretty much forgotten about that part as he'd let the water roll over him and stared at nothing, hurriedly shampooing his hair and giving himself a once over with a bar of soap when he felt the water cooling down. He was about 99% sure he still had some soap in his hair when he turned the taps off. He cringed when he caught sight of himself in the mirror, wishing he’d worn a scarf for the past few days. He stared for a moment, heart sinking. He really did look like a whore, his wrists were bruised properly now, and he was starting to feel really sick. Oh, there were those tears. He sat on the edge of the bathtub, crying as quietly as he could, wishing the shower was still running so he could have a proper howl without Roger hearing. He didn’t turn it back on, though, instead pinching the skin on the back of his hand to snap himself out of it and getting up to shave. He hesitated for a second, before reminding himself that the bruises on his neck would be gone by the time he could grow a proper beard, shaving himself down to the skin.

He managed to nick his chin quite badly in the process. He swore, holding his thumb to the tiny cut, almost mesmerised as he watched the blood trickle down his neck. He wasn’t really aware of what happened next, or why it happened, or even how he’d managed to break the blades free from his razor with his bare hands. He’d somehow snapped it in half with near herculean strength, wincing as he sliced his thumb open, sticking it in his mouth. He sat down against the wall, holding one of the newly freed blades in a shaking hand, feeling ridiculous and dramatic and stupid, but somehow not able to snap himself out of it. He felt like somebody else was moving his hands as he drew the blade across the tops of his thighs, his wrists were too obvious he'd somehow decided, plus he’d be able to hide it if he cut high enough, and just once was enough to send him into some kind of frenzy. He was making precise cuts, almost challenging himself to see how deep he could make the next one, his hand suddenly surgically steady, concentrating, completely absorbed in what he was doing and nothing else, and it was a place of peace, he couldn’t even make himself think about why he was doing this and when he’d turned into a 14 year old girl, even though the thoughts played in the back of his mind like a broken record.

He didn’t hear the door to the flat open, or Deaky messing with his belt buckle as he crossed the floor, or even the handle of the bathroom door turning. He did notice, though, when the door swung open and hit him hard in the knees.

“Fuck!” he swore without thinking, and he saw Deaky standing in front of him, fumbling to get his belt buckle done back up, looking panicked.

“Brian what the fuck are you doing on the floor?” he sounded pissed off at first, before realising that there was a lot of blood dripping down his legs, and he was holding the cause of the blood in his hands, and oh jesus. Brian took a beat to realise that Deaky had noticed, grabbing his towel and throwing it over his legs to try to hide what he’d done.

“Oh, jesus christ Brian,” Deaky looked sick, and his arms moved around in the air like he wasn’t sure what to do with them, and then he was out of the room, slamming the door, leaving Brian shocked and shaky and weak. He heard Deaky sprinting across the flat, and he snapped into action, mopping the blood off the floor and his legs, wincing as the towel brushed over the fresh wounds, oh, now it hurt, balling up the towel to hide any stains and throwing on the clean jeans he’d brought in with him. He hadn’t expected to bleed through them so quickly, thanking the heavens he’d chosen a dark, almost black pair, quickly exiting the bathroom. As soon as he shut the door, the door to Deaky’s room opened, and he passed Brian wordlessly and went into the bathroom, slamming the door. Brian felt sick with guilt. He hadn’t meant to involve anybody else in his own bullshit, and now poor Deaky was walking around like he’d seen a ghost, pretending Brian didn’t exist.

He was still, only snapping out of it when he heard the toilet flush, and Deaky hurriedly exited the bathroom, stopping in front of him. His face was still awfully pale, and his jaw was tight, and Brian couldn’t make eye contact as he stared him down.

“Brian,” he said in a raspy voice, jaw clenching, forcing him to look up and meet his gaze. He just shook his head wordlessly, looking almost hopelessly sad, and Brian was worried he was going to punch him. Instead, he did something much worse, grabbing him by the wrist, causing Brian to spiral into panic, yanking his hand away, heart rate spiking.

“Jesus, Bri…” Deaky sounded like he was going to cry, “I didn’t know that…” Brian just shook his head, feeling terribly ashamed of himself, hot tears prickling behind his eyes.

“It’s fine,” he hadn’t meant for his voice to sound so pathetic, and Deaky shook his head, taking his hand this time.

“Come on,” he said simply, quite literally dragging Brian into his and Freddie’s shared room. Brian always liked the rare occasions when he was invited into their room. Freddie liked to keep fresh flowers in a vase by the window and pin up his favourite design projects and tapestries. It never smelt like smoke or sweat, it mainly smelt of Freddie’s perfume and dying flowers and clean laundry, and Deaky kept his fix up projects on the actually usable desk, and Freddie’s sketchbook was lying open on the bed with the beginnings of a loving portrait, greylead lines lightly outlining what looked to be Deaky’s features, and Brian felt himself calming down a little bit when he took a deep breath and shut his eyes. He felt Deaky’s hand come down on his shoulder, firmly squeezing him, and he opened his eyes again.

“Mmhm?” Brian turned to him, and was guided to their shared bed, watching Deaky sit down before following suit, sinking into the soft mattress.

“Brian, I’m really, really sorry that Roger and Freddie have been so horrible about what happened,” wow, he just opened with that, then. He wasn’t much for small talk or nonsense, but he had hoped maybe there would be a _bit_ of beating around the bush before they dove in.

“It’s fine, I’m just being weird,” Brian all but mumbled, and Deaky shook his head.

“Bri, it’s not… God, when you said what you did, the other day, and now this,” his thoughts weren’t forming the most coherent sentences, but Brian knew exactly what he was getting at.

“Deaks it’s not a big deal, really, I’ve just been tired and overreacted, that’s all,” he said in a quiet voice, and Deaky sighed.

“You overreacted to being drugged and… And raped,” well, no avoiding that word anymore, “by being upset about it?” he asked bluntly, folding his arms, and Brian winced when everything was finally said out loud, and he felt a bit like he was the subject of an intervention.

“I shouldn’t have taken the drink, or gone home with him, it was stupid,” he said.

“So you’re going to blame yourself? That’s a great idea, Bri, always works out,” he said. Brian knew he was right, and he couldn’t bring himself to say anything.

“And then I find you… Brian I just don’t understand, you could have talked to me or Freddie, even Rog if it was getting to you like this, we didn't, I never thought that, well,” he said, trying his best to be sensitive, coming off a bit angry instead. Brian understood, nodding his head and squeezing his eyes shut to try to stop more tears from flowing. It didn’t work, tears rolling down his cheeks, and he heard Deaky sigh, sounding a bit flustered.

“No, don’t…” he sounded like he was struggling himself, but he really was trying.

“I’m really sorry. I told you, I’m overreacting,” he sobbed a bit, clapping his hand over his mouth to try to stifle it. He was embarrassing both of them, he was sure.

“No, no you can cry, fucks sake, I just mean,” he floundered, giving up and pulling him into a long hug. It was a while before any of them spoke again, and this time it was Brian who spoke first.

“It was fucking awful,” he whispered, and Deaky scooted back on the bed, getting comfortable, preparing to listen for a while instead of stuttering his way through what felt like scolding him. That was more comfortable for him, he was more of a listener than a talker, which was an asset they all found themselves thanking him for at times. He nodded, encouraging him to keep going.

“God, he was so fucking nice, too,” he shook his head, “I think that’s why I’m so confused about it all. He was speaking so kindly the whole time, and I didn’t even notice it was hurting much at the time, because he was playing it off like it was nothing. He made me fucking breakfast and joked about it then as well,” his voice was shaky, and he wasn’t sure how much he wanted to share with Deaky, but he was sitting so patiently and quietly and just nodding understandingly, curse him, and it all came tumbling out.

“I told him to stop, I-I really did but, god whatever he gave me was terrible, it was like I wasn’t even in my own body, I couldn’t even move,” he heard Deaky take a sharp breath, “and then he was like, holding me down and biting me and shit, and I don’t… I don’t like that shit at all,” his voice grew shaky, but he kept going, Deaky moving a little closer, hand on his shoulder.

“Did he hurt you?” was all he asked, and Brian shrugged nervously.

“Not… not really, not badly enough to complain,” he mumbled, and Deaky wanted to scream. He wanted to scream and bang his fists against Brian’s chest because he couldn’t stand hearing him invalidating himself over and over, but it wasn’t about him or the way he wanted Brian to feel, so he just nodded calmly.

“Where?” he asked, having to hold his breath to stop himself from yelling.

“Just my wrists a bit, and he bit me,” he pointed to his collarbone, eliciting a wince from Deaky, “and, you know,” he trailed off as he waved his hand around vaguely. Deaky nodded quickly, not keen on making him relive any trauma unnecessarily.

“Yeah, gotcha,” he nodded, swallowing thickly. Brian didn’t seem to want to say anything else, but he had a sudden realisation.

“Oh, fuck, I gave him our number,” his eyes were wide, and Deaky’s hand was on his shoulder again.

“It’s alright, I’ll warn the others, just don’t answer the phone,” he said softly, and Brian cringed.

“Please don’t tell them about this,” he whispered, and Deaky motioned zipping his lips.

“Not a word. I’ll tell them he was a dud shag,” he grinned, and Brian nodded, managing a little smile even though his cheeks weren’t yet dry. They were both quiet for a moment, and Deaky’s hands were moving nervously, clearly itching to say something.

“Your legs, Bri,” he said suddenly, and Brian ducked his head.

“Yeah, oh, they don’t hurt that badly they’re okay,” he lied, and Deaky shook his head.

“Maybe I should get Rog up, he might know how to bandage them a bit better than I will,” Brian’s eyes widened, and he shook his head.

“No, no please don’t,” he begged, and Deaky held up his hands.

“Sorry, sorry, just a suggestion,” he said, “I… I do want to have a look though, they look terribly sore, I don’t want them to get infected. Also they’re bleeding through so,” he added. Brian just nodded, looking terribly ashamed.

“Look, it's alright, two heads are better than one, right? I'll find some antiseptic or something and something to cover it so it won't stick to your clothes,” he mused. Brian just nodded, cheeks hot with shame, how could he have done something so stupid?

“I'm sorry,” he said quickly, and Deaky gave him a look that told him he'd better shut up as he left him for a moment to gather his supplies. As soon as the room was empty, he felt sick. Deaky had caught him, doing something he’d never even meant to do, and all he could feel was shame and guilt swirling in his gut. He shouldn’t have seen it, he shouldn’t have had to, nor should he have to deal with the aftermath.

He wondered if it was going to affect him, if he was going to have nightmares about it too. He really didn’t want him to tell the others, but it was much too cruel of him to actually expect him to keep it to himself. Deaky _could_ talk about it, he could tell the others without any shame or embarrassment over what he’d done, walking in had been an accident and Deaky was the hero, and they could all sit around and feel sorry for Brian, the poor, sick damsel. Brian couldn’t talk about it, though. He was the one who’d fucked up so badly - he’d never _seen_ Deaky look so pale or out of sorts - and he didn’t know what was to come. Would his friends be upset with him? They’d be upset, sure, but he had himself convinced that Freddie was going to be crying and yelling, very cross that he’d made poor Deaky see something that horrible, and, god, _Roger,_ Brian was sure he would be so angry he’d probably throw something at him, and for whatever reason those thoughts just made him want to do it more. It had been so fucking addictive, the feeling of the cold blade and the warm blood and the sharp sting and the lasting ache. The way that it took everything else away and he could just concentrate and watch the blood trickle away and - jesus, what was wrong with him? He understood now, how it could become a compulsion, how people were left covered in scars and locked in rooms in psychiatric hospitals. As Deaky came back, arms full of cotton bandages and antiseptic and face kind and worried and ready to help, he promised himself that he would never, ever do that to himself, or his friends, ever again.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cws for this chapter are  
> Self harm/cutting (major)  
> Suicidal thoughts  
> Violence/abuse (?)  
> Depression/depressive episodes  
> Panic attacks  
> Mentions of disordered eating (?)

Brian was trying. He was really, really trying. He wasn’t sure whether Deaky had told Freddie or Roger about what he’d done, but they both seemed to be treating him like he was a bit more… fragile. They'd all behaved alarmingly well at the last few rehearsals, Freddie and Roger hadn't even had a row when they'd disagreed on the timing for a song. They'd bizarrely taken themselves out of the room and had what Brian could only assume was an amicable chat, because neither of them came back red in the face, and Roger hadn't been in a mood about it. Roger hadn’t had one of his moods for a while, actually, at least not around him for the past week or so, and had actually kept his side of the room relatively tidy. Freddie had been making sure he woke up with a cup of tea and that he wasn’t shut in his room when he got home from class, and kept asking if he wanted to talk about anything in particular, or play his guitar for him and work out a solo, which he never did. He’d even brought him some azaleas and a little vase for his bedroom, so he was quite sure he’d had a conversation about it at some point. Freddie wasn’t exactly subtle. 

He was absolutely humiliated thinking of them all sitting about having a good old chat about how poor Brian had cut himself to ribbons on the bathroom floor, and how they all needed to be careful with him. He was sure he’d given them a stern talking to about what had happened that night with James, and how they weren’t to be so insensitive about it. He could practically hear Roger trying to stifle a giggle when he thought about it, and it made his ears burn.  He’d done his best to be okay, he really had, and he thought it might have been miraculously fixed after he had poured his heart out to Deaky and had a big cuddle. 

The bad dreams hadn’t stopped, though, and only maybe a week and a bit later, he’d split open one of the deeper cuts on his thighs when he was in the shower and it had started bleeding again. He’d again been completely mesmerised by the blood trickling down his leg, and had felt something terrible bubbling in his chest, a mix between panic and longing.

He hadn’t meant to do it again.

He really hadn’t, but after his shower, even after he stopped the bleeding with a tissue, he’d found himself in his bedroom, only in a pair of underwear, almost manically looking for the razor blade he’d stupidly hidden in one of his novels after he’d been caught by Deaky last time, just in case.

His room was a safer bet than the bathroom. He wasn’t in danger of anybody except Roger walking in on him, and he wasn’t due back from uni until after midday. He’d started going back to uni only two days after he’d gotten sick, seeming to have been struck with some kind of 24 hour bug, and definitely not whatever had kept Brian feeling exhausted and nauseous for more than a week.

He slipped his underwear down over his hips, he didn’t have any free space on his thighs and he really didn’t want anybody else to see what he’d done. It could be his shameful little secret. He felt his eyes burning as he dragged the blade over his skin, on top of his hip bone,  _ fuck, _ that hurt a lot more than it had on his thighs, and he couldn’t bring himself to cut quite as deep, which was frustrating him, causing his cuts to become less measured, wilder and angrier, until he’d taken all the space over his hips, moving to above his groin. That hurt even more, and he felt fat tears dripping onto his bedspread, his anger turning to misery as his thoughts began to become clear and loud.

_ That’ll show you for going out then. Now nobody’s going to want to touch you, even if you want them to. They’ll take one look at you and start running. _

Oh. He could have stopped, and examined his thoughts, actually had a think about why he was feeling the way he was feeling and doing what he was doing, but he was upset, and angry, and ashamed and borderline hysterical, and he didn’t want to do that. He wanted to cut himself deep enough that he could fall out of his own skin, so that he could crawl away from what his life had become, what  _ he  _ had become. His bruises had faded to almost nothing now, his wrists were back to being pale and bony and his neck had only a few yellowing bruises, but now he was creating more damage, more scars to remind himself of how much of an  _ idiot _ he’d been, to remind himself to never be that stupid again.

That wasn’t what they were for, at least not consciously, Brian thought. He was doing it because he couldn’t stop himself, he couldn’t draw his hands away from the blade or his pale skin and the blood running rivulets down his hips and his groin and staining his underwear deep red even if he wanted to. Because it was a compulsion now, like some kind of wonderful drug, the only thing stopping him from paying attention to the horrible thoughts and anxieties spinning around in his head like a hurricane, the only thing standing between him and catastrophic collapse. He’d already been through so much, put his friends through so much worry and stress and disaster that he couldn’t put something else on them, he couldn’t bear to think of what it would be like if he forced them to wake up one morning and find him gone. He didn’t know what he meant by that. He didn’t want to know what he meant, either, because he hadn’t meant to think something so horrid. He convinced himself that that was enough for now, when his skin was scratched and scarred and his underwear was soaked through with blood, and the almost throbbing ache returned, but his mind was blissfully quiet, and the flat was still.

He shifted his underwear down his legs, kicking it mindlessly into the corner, thinking that putting a new pair on would be too painful. That was stupid, too, because he’d done this to himself. Just like everything else in his life, this was his fault, too, and it made him feel a familiar sense of dread as he crawled under the covers, settling into bed. He’d been sleeping a lot recently, much more than he’d meant to, but he was exhausted and empty and felt like he had nothing better to do. He’d skipped rehearsals and uni the past couple of days, and even called in sick to his one shift he’d managed to get at the bakery, which was completely unlike him, but then again everything he did and felt and  _ was _ , was completely unlike him right now. He just hadn't felt smart enough or good enough or human enough to even get out of bed. He hadn't been doing any of his assignments or practising his solos, and the few songs he'd written had been so disjointed and horribly depressing that he'd shoved them in the back of his sock drawer, knowing if he showed any of them he'd probably be hauled off to the psych ward.

He’d played it off, explaining to his flatmates - no, friends, Brian, they’re your friends - that he’d been feeling nauseous, which wasn’t a lie, or that his professor wasn’t coming in that day and one of his friends from class had phoned him, which was a lie, and he’d had exactly no trouble lying to any of them, which just made his stomach hurt more.

He fell asleep for a few hours, waking only when he heard a gruff, panicked yell, and felt a hard thump on his mattress by his shoulder. He blinked his eyes open, taking a moment to come back into the room, looking groggily up at Roger, who was standing over him, looking very, very angry. He didn’t know why, or with what, he was angry, but it was all explained when he held up a pair - the pair, of underwear, quite literally soaked through with drying blood.

“Again,” was all he said, throwing them right into Brian’s face with a fair bit of force, which had him recoiling and throwing them off in shock, his mind racing and trying to catch up with the reality of what was happening.   


“He said that you said you were done,” Roger said, lips pressed tight, being pulled downwards at the corners twitchily, obviously desperately trying to hold onto some semblance of composure and failing miserably.

“Jesus, Roger, it’s… it’s not,” Brian tried, not really having the time or brain capacity to make up an excuse for him. He saw Roger’s face go about eight shades of red, snatching the underwear back off the bed and holding them in front of his face.

“No!? Then what!? Got your period have you Bri!?” he was yelling now, and Brian was flinching, not really sure how to react. This wasn’t really how he’d pictured it - and he had spent a lot of time picturing it - when he was finally caught or confronted by him. He’d pictured a lot of crying and maybe some hugging and a long conversation, but not Roger screaming at the top of his lungs, looking like he was going to burst into tears and vomit and explode into a million pieces and shatter into a billion, all at the same time.

“Are you fucking serious!?” his voice came again, getting in close to his face, making Brian flinch, and he could feel his chest heaving and his breath wheezing in and out of his lungs. That seemed to make Roger even more angry, when he realised he was probably going to cry, and he held his hand up, almost like he was going to hit him.   


“Show me! Fucking show me what you’ve done, fuck’s sake!” he snapped again, and Brian jumped, shaking his head desperately, trying to move away from him.   


“You fucking show me!” he demanded, wrenching back the covers from his bed too quickly for Brian to stop him. He was naked, exposed, bleeding, panicking. Roger’s eyes were wide, searching,  panicked,  _ terrified. _

“Get off! Get the fuck off me!” Brian found his voice, and his legs, apparently, planting a solid kick in Roger’s middle, sending him stumbling backwards. Brian grabbed the blankets and yanked them up over his waist again, worried for a moment that Roger was going to deck him, but he didn’t. He looked shocked, almost disgusted with him, grabbing his coat and running out into the living room, leaving the bedroom door wide open, bellowing for his flatmates.

“Freddie! John! Get in there! Get in there and see what he’s fucking done to himself!” Brian could hear his voice was thick with tears and he realised for the first time that he was crying, too.

Brian heard two sets of footsteps speeding towards the living room before what sounded like a bit of a scuffle.

“Roger calm down - give me the keys, you’re not going anywhere this upset you’ll crash and die!”   


“Good!”

Ow, that hurt, Brian noticed.

“Settle the  _ fuck _ down and tell us what’s happened,” Freddie’s voice, and a bit more shuffling, and the sofa groaning.

“He’s done it again! Go and see for yourself! He’s fucking butchered himself! He’s almost sliced his fucking cock off! You said he wouldn’t do it again!”

Ow, again, listening to the conversation was more painful than anything he’d felt in the past week.

“He showed you?” John’s voice now, quiet and measured, but there was a hint of panic that was impossible to miss.   


“No! I was trying to keep the room clean _ \- like you fucking said - _ and there was a pair of his pants on the floor soaked with fucking blood!” his voice was calming down, maybe a bit, and it was getting shakier, he noticed. He felt horrible, he felt like a fucking disgrace. He couldn’t bring himself to get up and shut the door, that would draw attention, he just pulled the covers up to his chin and backed into the corner at his headboard, drawing his knees up. He didn’t know why, he felt very fucking cliche, but he was hurt and upset and  _ afraid _ and he couldn’t stop shivering.

“Everybody just needs to… Roger,  _ you  _ need to calm down, go have a smoke or something, we’ll just-” John didn’t sound like he knew what to do. None of them did. He was talking about Brian like he was a problem that had to be fixed. He was, though. He’d caused so many problems, he’d broken so many bonds, destroyed so much trust, he was  _ still  _ fucking everything up. His sobs started coming louder, even though he was doing everything in his power to keep them silent, he felt like he was choking. He could practically feel all three of them staring through the wall into his room, and he wanted to dissolve into the mattress. 

“He fucking kicked me,” Roger added, his voice was calmer and quieter and almost sulky.

“You probably deserved it,” Freddie commented, and John shushed them.

“Leave it, you two. Freddie, take Rog downstairs for a smoke,” he said. Freddie made a small noise of protest, but something told him he’d given Freddie a good glare and he heard two sets of footsteps leading out the door to the hall, and one set leading to his bedroom door. There was a light knock on the door frame, and Deaky poked his head in, raising an eyebrow at Brian.

“Can I come in, please?” he asked, voice far too gentle and steady for the situation. Brian didn’t move, and John crossed the floor to his bed, sitting lightly on the edge. It was silent for a beat, before he heard Deaky take a quick breath and look at him.

“I won’t ask if you’re okay,” he said, before gesturing to him, “you’re clearly not.”

“I’m fine,” Brian’s voice wasn’t more than a whisper, and he shivered when he spoke.   


“Yeah, you’re looking fab,” he sighed, hands busy clutching at the sheets, neither of them making eye contact with each other.

“You said you wouldn’t tell them,” Brian spoke, and his heart immediately clenched for saying so. He knew that he couldn’t expect him to keep such a horrid secret to himself, and he, unlike Brian, had his friends there to support him through it, which he needed. He saw Deaky’s face fall a little bit, and he shook his head.

“You… I couldn’t keep them in the dark, Brian, that’s not fair,” he said. Brian nodded, cheeks re-wet with tears as soon as he spoke, guilt rising in his chest and making him feel sick.

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you I’d told them but, well. I didn’t know how you’d react,” he said, and Brian heard him swallow, “I’ve not done this before, sorry for not being an expert,” his voice had no edge to it, but the words cut right through Brian anyway.

“Sorry, shit, that was mean,” he sighed, resting his head in his hands. Brian felt numb. He was putting the three most important people in his life through so much pain and worry and  _ bullshit  _ just because he couldn’t get on top of his emotions, on top of his stupid brain, and he couldn’t feel anything anymore. It’s like he’d reached his threshold for pain and his body had switched it off to protect him. It wasn’t protecting him, though, it made him feel worse. It made him afraid, because without the threat of pain holding him back, feeling so undone and so deep into the hole he’d dug for himself, he didn’t know what he was going to do to himself, or if he could make himself stop if he did it.   


“I just mean,” John’s voice pulled him out of his head and anchored him, a hand on his knee tethering him to the conversation, the room, the real world.

“None of us know, Brian, I can’t imagine it’s much better for you, either. We’re trying not to make a big deal of it because I thought that might make it worse but Rog is just… you should have seen his face when I told him,” he went on. His voice was barely a whisper.

“He looked like he was going to fall apart, Bri, I thought he was going to kill me for a minute. He thought I was making it up, and he was so, so angry with me for even insinuating that you would…  I don't think he can handle his emotions as well as Freddie and I can, and I think maybe he still wanted to believe that you wouldn’t do something to hurt yourself, because...” he tried to keep his voice level, but it was wobbling a bit.

“I think that when he saw you, just now, which of course he never should have done, and I’m sorry, really, but I think he- you’re his best friend, Brian. You’re always on him to stop smoking and drinking and staying up too late because it might hurt him, imagine if you found out he was hurting himself on purpose,” Brian was sobbing at that, jesus christ, he was right. He really hadn’t wanted him to be right.   


“No, no, fuck,” Deaky swore, “no not… not  _ on purpose,  _ Brian, I didn’t mean… shit. Sorry,” he gave up trying to explain himself, settling for scooting back on the bed and wrapping an arm around him, not sure what to do to fix what he’d just said.

“I’ve such a way with words,” he muttered while he shook his head, making Brian snort a laugh through the tears, and he felt like the weight on his shoulders had been lifted. Or maybe it had finally become too much and crushed him. Either way, Brian had laughed, so he was listening to what he was saying, maybe what he’d said hadn’t been that bad, maybe he’d gotten through to him, he didn’t know. He hoped at least a bit of what he’d said had helped.

“How bad are they?” he asked in a soft voice. Brian gave a shaky shrug and folded his arms over his knees.

“Would I be able to see?” he asked, following up with, “I don’t  _ want  _ to, and you don’t have to show me but I just don’t want anything to get infected.”

Brian nodded nervously, unsure of how to reveal what he’d done without showing Deaky something he really didn’t want him to see. He just cupped his hand over himself, slowly pulling the covers back. Deaky did quite well at containing his shock, his horror and raw pain at what he was seeing, just giving a small, almost disappointed hum.

“Alright, not too bad,” he lied, his face gave it away, “I’m not sure how to get a bandage to stay there, but we’ll sort something out. I’m getting to be quite the little nurse,” he joked, getting up, leaving Brian for two minutes to try not to fall apart on his own.

“Alright,” John’s voice broke the silence, and he closed the door as he came back into his room, “like last time, it’s going to sting, probably worse actually, you managed to get quite a sensitive area,” he explained. Brian just nodded, and obediently peeled the blankets back, not bothering to cover himself this time which was a little bit jarring for John, but he didn’t say anything, dipping a clean towel in the antiseptic mixture he’d made, looking up at Brian to make sure he was ready. He nodded, and he took a breath to try to steady his hands, starting over his left hip. Brian hissed, jerking backwards a little bit.   


“I know, I’m sorry,” his voice was quiet and soothing, and he kept talking to him as he methodically worked over the wounds, doing his best to soothe him. He knew Brian could do this himself, really, but he was worried that he wouldn’t and they would get infected or not heal properly. There was that, and he really, really didn’t want Brian to feel alone right now. This gave him an excuse to be with him, at least for a little while, to make sure he was calm.

Brian felt his chest tightening as his hands moved towards his groin, it’s just John, just Deaky, he wasn’t going to do anything,  _ you’re in control, Brian, you can get him to stop if you want to, just speak up. _ He couldn’t though, the words were stuck in his throat, and he couldn’t breathe.

“Brian, hey,” Deaky stopped touching him for a moment, sitting back. Brian looked awful, pale, he was trembling and he wasn’t breathing properly.   


“Bri,” he repeated, laying his hand gently over Brian’s, not overly shocked when he jerked it back, holding it to his chest.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry I’m being stupid,” he mumbled, shaking his head.   


“No, you’re not Brian. It’s perfectly reasonable for you to not want me to touch you there,” he said sternly, making it clear that there was no room for argument. He just nodded, letting out the breath that had been caught in his lungs.

“Here,” he gave the towel to Brian, pushing the bowl of antiseptic closer.

“You’re going to do it, I’m going to stay here with you though, to make sure you’re doing it properly,” he instructed, shoulders dropping a bit when Brian obediently started cleaning his own wounds, running the towel gently over them, wincing when he opened one up again, making it start bleeding again.

“Oops, it’s okay, keep the towel there,” he instructed, nodding approvingly when Brian did as he was told.   


“Fancy yourself a doctor, Deaks?” Brian asked, a hint of humour in his shaky voice, and he nodded, letting out a breathy laugh.

“I do, actually,” he smiled, hearing his voice evening out as the tension dissipated a bit.

“Alright, that’ll do,” he nodded. Despite Brian’s earlier comment, he followed his instructions obediently, going back to methodically cleaning each one of the incisions, careful not to open another one up. Once he was finished, John handed him a clean pair of underwear, turning his eyes to the ceiling to let him pull them on with a bit of privacy, finding him a clean t shirt and some pyjama bottoms. He eyed him as he pulled the shirt on, noticing that he could quite clearly see his ribs, wincing. He’d always been skinny, almost a bit too skinny, even, but now he was positively skeletal.

“When was the last time you had something to eat?” he asked kindly, nodding his head toward the kitchen. Brian wordlessly followed him, not because he didn’t want to tell him, but because he frighteningly couldn’t remember. He remembered choking down a bit of his dinner on the night Roger had gotten ill, two Sundays ago, which was quite a while, he reminded himself. From then on it was a bit fuzzy. Freddie sometimes had toast waiting for him when he woke up, and he was polite enough to half finish it even if it tasted like cardboard to him. Everything did, recently. And then when Freddie made him a cup of tea he normally gave him a biscuit with it, which he sometimes gave to Roger, usually gave to Roger, actually. Roger had tried making spaghetti on Thursday, no, Wednesday night, and it hadn’t been very good but he remembered eating half a bowl and pretending that it was so he wouldn’t hurt his feelings, and what day was it now? It had to be Friday, he thought. So, Wednesday night was his answer, unless he was forgetting a biscuit or a piece of toast. He didn’t tell Deaky when he figured it out. He’d be disappointed and upset and he’d be forced to eat more than he felt like eating, which was nothing. He was going to have to eat something, he knew that, but maybe he could get away with only having a little bit and claiming a stomach ache again. He’d been doing that for most of the week, though it was never a lie. He’d made it to the dining table, Deaky was in the kitchen, and he was opening and closing cupboards.

“Cornflakes?” he called. Brian considered for a moment. Cornflakes would be okay, he thought. Cornflakes were light and didn’t taste too much of anything, and they weren’t eggs on toast, which was important even though he didn’t feel like thinking about why.

“Yes please,” he replied, pulling his chair into the table. The curved sides of the back of the chair could almost touch the edge of the table with Brian sat in it, which didn’t worry him as much as it probably should have. In a sick way, it almost made him a bit proud. Deaky came in then, placing a full bowl of cornflakes in front of Brian, and he blanched a little bit at the sight of food. He didn’t really want to eat at all, but Deaky was looking at him expectantly, and he had to pick up the spoon and take a mouthful in and swallow it down after chewing it far too many times so it wouldn’t get stuck in his throat.

Deaky sat down with a little sigh after watching Brian struggle through a few spoonfuls, tapping his fingers on the tabletop. Brian looked up at him. He knew he was going to say something, and he was anxious about what.

“We need to come up with something,” Deaky said suddenly. Brian just frowned at him.   


“You might need to be a bit more specific,” he said.   


“Something for… when you’re feeling like this. I don’t know, really, I’ve never been in the situation you’re in so as much as we all want to help you, you’re going to need to help us too,” he finished, leaving Brian more confused than when he’d started.

“What do you mean?” he asked, focusing back on his cornflakes, not sure he wanted to have this conversation right now.

“Well, I mean that…” he trailed off, not sure what he actually meant to say, trying to collect his thoughts before opening his mouth again, in case he said something he didn’t mean to.

“We know it’s not your fault. We know that you don’t want to hurt yourself just as much as we don’t want to see you hurt yourself, but we’re all a little bit stuck now that it’s happened again. We just want to know… well, firstly I suppose, do you want to stop?” he asked, and that question shocked Brian, mostly because he didn’t know the answer.

“I… I do,” the answer surprised him, because it sounded so hesitant, but also because he wasn’t sure if it was the truth.

“I’m afraid if you don’t want to stop there isn’t much we can do,” Deaky continued, and that hit Brian like a slap in the face. He hated that he was right, like he had been about everything so far, that if Brian didn’t want to help himself, they couldn’t help him either. He hated that this was how he was spending his Friday afternoon, that this was his reality now. He was going to spend mornings alone and afternoons having interventions and his entire life being watched and examined to make sure he wasn’t sneaking around or doing anything stupid to himself. It was embarrassing at best, and at worst, it absolutely destroyed him to think about.

“I know.”

“So,” Deaky’s voice was too loud, it carried through the flat, and he wondered if the neighbours could hear them, “what do we do?” He was properly asking him now, expecting a response, if not a direct answer at least _something_ , and he swallowed thickly.

“I really… I’m not sure. I’ve never been in this situation before either,” he said softly, voice barely a whisper. If the flat hadn’t been so completely, deafeningly quiet, neither of them would have heard him.

“I know,” Deaky deflated a little bit, drumming his fingers on the table again.   


“Is there anything that… I don’t know, triggers it?” he asked, sounding a bit helpless. Brian shook his head, because if there was, he hadn’t figured it out himself.

“Alright, um…” he trailed off, looking like he was searching for something, “is there any way you think you could maybe come and get me when you think it’s going to happen?” Brian thought about it for a moment, and he felt a bit panicky when he thought about trying to stop. He’d just found something, one thing that had stopped him from feeling so horrible, so panicky and helpless and alone, and he was going to have to give it up.   


“Brian?” Deaky was speaking again, reaching out for his arm. Brian flinched when he touched him, and he nodded.   


“I could try,” he confirmed, and Deaky nodded, shoulders sinking a little with relief.

“Okay. Okay, good,” his voice sounded a bit more relaxed, and he gave his arm a little squeeze, careful not to hold him around the wrist, he remembered.

“And if I’m not here, if I’m at uni or somewhere,” he continued, though he couldn’t imagine himself going anywhere else for a while. He’d feel far too guilty if something happened to Brian while he was out, especially if it was somewhere he didn’t need to be.

“Do you think you could go to Rog or Freddie? I’ll talk to them, well, we can both have a talk to them,” he suggested. Brian felt his throat catch at that. He wasn’t too sure. Freddie had been so lovely to him, and Roger… well, he’d been clearly very worried about him as well, but he didn’t feel like he could just go to either of them with a “Hi, I think I’m going to hurt myself, can you please stop me?” That wasn’t a fair burden to put on any of them, but he felt at least mildly comfortable going to Deaky about it.

“You don’t even have to say anything, maybe we can make a… like a signal or something, so you can let us know how you’re feeling,” he suggested. Brian’s stomach dropped, and he felt like he was going to cry of embarrassment, like he was being treated like a baby who couldn’t even use his fucking words to tell them how he felt.

“Or we don’t have to,” he said quickly when he noticed his face, “even if you just come and sit with one of us, or come into our room if nobody’s out in the flat. We won’t mind.”

Brian nodded carefully. That could work, maybe.   


“We do need to have a talk about it, all of us. It isn’t fair to expect the others to stay in the dark, and I think they’d like to have their say, too,” Deaky added. He just nodded nervously. He really, really didn’t didn’t want to have a talk about it, he didn’t want the others weeping over him and telling him their feelings, and he didn’t want to tell them his feelings either.

“Okay,” he croaked, and Deaky patted his hand.   


“I’ll go get them,” he said, and Brian’s stomach dropped again, because he hadn’t thought he’d meant  _ now.  _ He wasn’t ready, but it didn’t matter, because Deaky was already out the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, thank you all for your comments and kudos on this fic, it really makes my day when I read them! :)


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CWS  
> Suicidal thoughts/ talking about suicide  
> Mentions of cutting  
> Verbal/emotional abuse (?)

Roger and Freddie came back inside. Roger’s eyes looked red and puffy and sore, and both of them smelt like they’d smoked a pack of cigarettes each, and they all sat down on the sofas, waiting expectantly for Brian to come over. He did, eventually, once he felt brave enough to move. He could feel their eyes on him, and he carefully sat down in his armchair, feeling very much like he was the subject of an intervention, which he supposed he was. Roger was the first to speak, of course, he usually was.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled, which made Brian’s heart hurt, because he was the one who should have been sorry. He was the one who’d upset him so much that he’d gotten so angry, who’d forced the both of them out of their own flat so he could stop being such a freak for five minutes, who’d caused them all so much pain and worry and fear, and he didn’t know if he could ever forgive himself. He shook his head, letting his shoulders drop.

“No, Rog, I’m sorry, are you alright?” he asked softly, barely being able to force himself to make eye contact, “is your stomach okay? I kicked you really hard.” Roger just nodded, flashing him a cheeky smile.

“You’re not that strong, Bri,” he said with a hint of humour. Freddie rolled his eyes.

“He hasn’t stopped bitching about it for the past half hour,” he corrected him, and Roger glared. Okay, alright, this was fine, they weren’t behaving all weird or different, nobody had handwritten notes about how his actions had made them feel, they were all just being normal. Thank fuck for that. It went quiet for a moment, and his gaze fell on Freddie, who was staring at him, looking like he desperately wanted to say something.

“We love you Brian,” he said suddenly, eyes kind and sad and pleading. God, no, not that look.

“We love you so much, and we never ever want you to do anything that silly again, okay?” he pleaded. Brian didn’t say anything, and he felt Deaky’s hand come out to rest on his shoulder.

“Freddie,” he said, his voice was a little bit warning, “we’re not here to blame anybody, okay?” Freddie shook his head quickly, leaning forward to hold onto Brian’s knee.

“I’m not, of course not, sorry,” he ducked his head, “I just wanted you to know,” he finished with a mumble. Brian nodded, placing his hand on top of Freddie’s, trying to get his mouth working again.

“I know. Thanks,” was what he managed to actually say, despite him practically having a monologue forming in his head, thinking that simple might be better. Nobody seemed to say anything else for a bit, and the tension in the air grew until Deaky finally cut through it with his voice, snapping it like a rubber band.

“Brian and I have come up with an idea,” he started, making Brian cringe a little bit, “something that he thinks might help when he’s feeling… bad.” He was choosing his words carefully, not wanting to upset anybody, seeming more worried about Roger, whose face was starting to heat up again.

“We thought that when he’s feeling an… urge, he could maybe just come and sit with us. We thought it might be the simplest way to maybe, well, snap out of it, I suppose, and that way he won’t have to say anything and feel awkward about it, and we can all have an idea of what’s going on and try to keep an eye on him, sorry, Brian, just shut me up if I’m stepping out of line,” he added cautiously, but Brian shook his head. He was saying it pretty much perfectly, if he was honest, and it felt horrible to hear it out loud.

“So, what, are we supposed to just sit there? Are we allowed to talk to him?” Roger’s voice was a bit jarring, and he sounded annoyed at the idea Deaky had just proposed.

“He’s sitting right there, Rog, why don’t you ask him yourself?”

“Right, so what, Bri, you’re just going to come and sit with us and be all quiet and moody so you don’t slash your wrists?” he asked. Deaky and Freddie both shot him a look, but he didn’t seem to be paying attention.

“You don’t have to be involved if you don’t want to, Rog,” Brian told him, and he scoffed.

“And what? Have you wandering around like a lost little lamb if I’m the only one in the flat and you want to slice yourself up?” he asked incredulously. Okay, then, maybe this plan hadn’t been as simple as they’d thought. “Sorry, Rog,” Brian said, keeping his voice low, not really knowing what else to say.

“No, why don’t you fucking grow up and actually speak up for once? Or better yet, why don’t you stop fucking about and wasting time with all this cutting bullshit and fucking _finish the job_ ,” he spat. The room went sickeningly quiet, and nobody was sure what to say. Brian didn’t even want to say anything, he didn’t want to yell at him or tell him he was wrong, because he wasn’t. He’d been fucking around playing pretend, slicing himself up when he could have made everything better for everybody in a second. Everything he’d done, everything he was going to do, everything he hated about himself and the world around him, it could all be gone in a split second, and then nobody, not even Brian, would have to worry about him ever again.

“Roger, you need to go,” Deaky’s voice was shaky but firm, and his stare bore holes through the blond. Freddie looked vaguely like he was going to be sick, and Roger looked like he was going to open his mouth, try to backpedal or find a way out of it, but he didn’t.

“Good,” was all he said, standing up and grabbing his van keys and his coat, slipping on a mismatched pair of shoes at the door and slamming it behind him. Freddie watched him like he wanted to go after him, but he stayed seated, turning his eyes to look at Brian and Deaky. Brian looked, and felt, like he’d sunk halfway through the armchair, and Deaky was sitting on the edge of the sofa, his head in his hands.

“That went to shit,” he mumbled into his palm, dragging his hands down his face, turning to Brian, looking disgustingly apologetic.

“I had no idea he was going to react like that,” he started his apology, and Brian just shook his head.

“Neither did I,” he interrupted.

“Nor should either of you,” Freddie’s voice chimed in, “all we asked was that he was a part of the conversation, nobody asked him to do anything if he didn’t want to and he…” Freddie couldn’t finish his sentence, getting up and taking himself to his bedroom. He was definitely going to have an angry sob, Brian thought. Deaky watched him go, looking a little bit torn.

“You can go,” Brian said quickly, not wanting to hold him back from going to comfort his boyfriend just because he was worried he’d do something else stupid. Deaky shrugged.

“Only if you feel like coming,” he said, and Brian nodded, surprising himself. Maybe it was because it would do him some good, worrying about somebody other than himself for a while, or maybe it was because he felt fucking selfish making them all worry about him and nothing else. Maybe it was just because being in their room was a change of scenery, and it almost therapeutic for him to go in there now, and he followed him into the bedroom, heart crumbling when he saw Freddie, hunched over the edge of the bed, sobbing into his hands. All he could think was that he’d caused it, he’d caused Roger to act the way he had and say the things he did, and now Freddie was crying and it was all just a big, horrible chain reaction that never should have been.

“Love,” Deaky’s voice came soft and low and loving, and he perched on the bed beside Freddie, looking like he was going to cry too. Freddie really didn’t cry a lot, despite how over dramatic he normally was about everything else, and it hurt Brian’s heart when he did. Deaky looked absolutely shattered, and he just wrapped his arms around Freddie, lips lost in his hair, gently rocking him.

“What he said, that was, it was just _so awful_. I can’t believe he’d say something like that,” he choked. Brian was awkward, not really knowing if he should do anything, until Deaky spoke again.

“Brian’s here too,” he told him, and Freddie looked up, eyes red rimmed and watery, offering a tight smile.

“Come here, darling,” he patted the bed, and Brian crawled on without much hesitation. Freddie turned, cupping Brian’s face with both hands, giving him a look that Brian couldn’t quite place.

“You look so, _so_  tired sweetheart,” he whispered, voice full of nothing but pure sadness, letting his thumbs trace his cheekbones. Brian just dropped his head defeatedly, because, god, he was. He’d been sleeping too much and not enough at the same time, and he hadn’t been eating at all really, and he couldn’t even remember the last time he’d actually drunk a glass of water and hadn’t just been trying to quench his thirst with half-cups of tea. It didn’t take much for Freddie to gently guide him down onto the bed, pulling the blankets up over him, lying beside him. It took a moment for them to both get comfortable, Freddie wrapping his arms around him experimentally, one under his head, the other draped over his middle, letting Brian shift around until he was on his side, their faces only inches from each other.

“Oh, Brian,” Freddie said softly, thumb tracing slow patterns on his waist, watching him blink tiredly.

“Deaky, get in,” he said softly, moving a little closer to Brian to make room for John. Brian wasn’t sure if he would, but he felt the bed dip, and saw an arm go around Freddie’s waist, and surprisingly, relievingly, he didn’t feel anything except comfort and exhaustion and he let his eyes slip shut, body pressed close to both of them, sleeping properly for the first time in days.

_“I know, Deaky, but it… it wasn’t just some random comment,”_ Brian could hear voices whispering when he woke, finally, noting it was dark outside, the room was dimly lit with one of Freddie's candles. The voices weren’t coming from within the room though, they were outside the open door, and the bed was cold, meaning he’d been alone for a while, but he didn’t want to get up just yet.

_“No, it wasn’t Freddie, and there will have to be a conversation about it, but you need to try to understand,”_ Deaky was speaking now, and they were talking, about him, he thought.

_“Understand what?”_ the voice was getting louder, _“he told Brian he’d better hurry up and off himself! I’m not just going to be understanding and forgiving about that, John,”_ ouch, he’d called him John. That wasn’t like Freddie at all. He'd given him the nickname after they'd first met and had called him that almost exclusively ever since. They must have been arguing then.

_“I don’t expect you to forgive him, at least not right away, but what do you want to do? Throw him out onto the street? He lives here,”_ oh. They were talking about Roger, not him, which was a relief. Sort of.

_“Yes! You were the one that threw him out in the first place,”_ Freddie’s voice came again, and both of them were getting louder without meaning to or noticing.

_“I didn’t throw him out, I told him to leave, for a while, to calm down, so he could come back and we could talk.”_

_“I don’t want to talk to him. God, he’s been fucking horrible to poor Brian, after everything he’s been through,”_ now they were talking about him, and he felt his stomach sink.

_“It’s not an easy thing, love, I know he’s been through a lot of awful things recently but… god, it was absolutely revolting, what he said, wasn’t it?”_ Deaky’s voice was weak now - he sounded sick, they both did.

_“It was!”_

_“I know, shit, I know. I still don’t think kicking him out is right, though, maybe we could sell the king, get a couple of singles, then one of us could share with Rog and one of us could go with Brian?”_ he heard Deaky lower his voice after that, and he’d had enough. He wasn’t going to have them upturn their lives on account of him, and he knew they didn’t mean it, but them fretting and stressing was making everything a hundred times worse.

“Hey,” Brian made his appearance in the doorway, and they both swung their heads around, looking like deer caught in headlights.

“Brian! We were just wondering what to get for tea, the fish and chip shop is shut, it’s a bit late, but-”

“No you weren’t,” Brian interrupted him, and Freddie went pale.

“You were talking about kicking Roger out, I heard.”

“Oh, no darling we were just… I’m just cross with him,” Freddie said, shoulders falling.

“We’re not kicking him out,” Brian said, “what he said was pretty fucking reasonable, given the situation.”

“It was not!” Freddie practically stamped his foot at that, and Deaky had a hand on his shoulder to settle him.

“What he said was - was vile and horrible and completely out of line and.... And he should have to come back here grovelling on his knees!” Freddie stamped his foot again, and Brian rolled his eyes, shaking his head.

“Freddie, no,” he began, trying to keep them all calm, “this is… it’s, well, it's fucked, really, and everybody needs… everybody reacts differently. I feel pretty fucking horrible as it is, but I know if the situation was different and any of you were… I know I’d - actually, no, I don’t know what I’d do. I have no idea.” Freddie’s shoulders dropped some more, and he looked ready to cry again.

“He can come back here whenever he likes, and yes, an apology would be appreciated, but in his own time. None of us are perfect,” he reminded him, and Freddie scowled.

“Speak for yourself,” he grumbled. Brian chuckled, shaking his head.

“God, I hope he’s alright, what time is it?” Brian asked, sitting on the sofa.

“Just gone ten,” John said, giving him a grateful look, clearly relieved that they’d managed to talk Freddie out of throwing Roger’s belonging out into the gutter.

“Ten… Has he called to check in?” Brian asked hopefully, and he just shook his head. That worried him a lot, because as stupid as Brian had been to hurt himself on purpose, they all knew what a hothead Roger was, and he was worried he’d end up doing something stupid and hurting himself out of pure anger. Thinking about it made his heart race and his stomach turn, and, oh, shit. The penny dropped, then, and he realised suddenly exactly how Roger had felt when he’d left. He needed to find him. He wouldn’t be able to live with himself if he was out there doing something stupid, what exactly he wasn’t sure, and that's what frightened him.

“I’m going for a walk,” Brian said suddenly, causing both their heads to whip around, looking at him like he’d gone mad.

“Alright, I’ll come,” Deaky said, and he shook his head.

“No,” he said firmly, “please, Deaks? Promise I won’t kill myself,” he tried to make a joke but it stuck in his throat and came out dry and forced, and nobody was laughing. Deaky looked at Brian, and Freddie looked at Deaky, and Brian eyed the both of them, not sure what anybody was going to say next.

“Alright, but if you do, I’ll kill you,” Deaky said firmly, not sounding like he was joking. Brian smiled softly, slipping back into his room to pull on some proper jeans and a jumper, then a coat, thinking it would probably be freezing out, before lacing up a pair of boots, grabbing his wallet and his watch and his house keys. He said goodbye to Freddie and Deaky, who were left looking a little bit helpless as he walked out the door. The second he hit the street, he started to panic a bit. He had no idea which way to walk, where Roger could have possibly gone, where to even begin looking for him.

He started to panic even more, then, that he’d taken himself miles and miles away, and that he’d never find him on foot, or that he’d taken himself to a club and had gone home with somebody, which was more likely, so he just walked. He walked and walked, scanning the streets for any sign of his beloved van. Turned out, he didn’t have to walk as far as he had, though he should have started in the other direction, when he rounded the block and saw his van against the treeline at the park near their flat. He made a beeline for it, before stopping dead about twenty metres out. What was he going to say? What would he do? Was Roger even in there? What if he’d wandered off into the woods, caveman style, never to be seen again?

He was being silly, he reasoned, plucking up the courage to approach the van. As he got closer, he heard music playing, and noticed that the inside of the van was almost completely filled with cigarette smoke. He couldn’t even see Roger for smoke, but he knew that he’d be in there. He tapped hesitantly on the window, hearing a loud,

“Fuck!” before the window rolled down, just a crack, letting some of the smoke out. He saw Roger peering out with red rimmed eyes, trying to see who was there, eyes settling on Brian’s. He didn’t look angry anymore, more guilty, and he leaned back in the driver’s seat, unlocking the doors. Brian took that as a sign that it was alright for him to get in, so he did, opening the passenger side door to a plume of thick, foul smelling smoke, rolling the window down just a bit so that he wouldn’t suffocate. Roger didn’t look at him, Brian could barely see him through the smoke anyway, but he did reach forward to turn the radio down. Brian didn’t know what to say, so he said the first thing on his mind, and possibly the worst thing he could have said in that moment.

“You’re hurting yourself, too,” and his voice was thick and raspy from the smoke and he didn’t miss the sharp look Roger gave him.

“Seriously? That’s why you’ve come here? You’ve walked out, in the cold, in the middle of the night, to prove a point? We’re all hurting ourselves, is that it, Brian? It’s not just you, putting a blade to your skin, it’s me with my cigarettes and Freddie with his self deprecation and Deaky with his- fuck it, you know what, just go. I really don’t have the time to waste,” he sighed, and Brian heard him fumbling for a lighter, and he saw the naked flame and then the cherry of another cigarette glowing red through the haze inside the van.

“I’m sorry,” he tried, letting out a shaky sigh, “I am, I didn’t mean to say that.”

“Yeah, well. We all say things,” he mumbled, and if that was Roger’s attempt at an apology, Brian would take it.

“We do.” he said simply, taking a breath of putrid, smoky air, coughing weakly. Roger just shook his head.

“Why’ve you really come?” he asked, taking a long drag, tapping the end of his cigarette into the almost full ashtray in the console.

“I don’t know,” he answered.

“I just didn’t want you to be out here doing something stupid by yourself, thinking all your friends had shunned you or something.”

“Yeah, well, you caught me,” he grumbled. There was silence for a beat, before Brian spoke again.

“I don’t blame you for acting how you did. What I did, what I’ve been doing, is really fucked up,” he rasped. Roger sighed.

“Yeah. It is, couldn’t have said it better myself,” he sighed, stubbing out his dying cigarette in the ashtray and flicking the butt out the window. Brian opened his mouth to tell him he shouldn’t do that, but stopped himself quickly.

“Did you even stop to think about it? I mean at all? What it’s going to do to you in the future, how it’s going to affect every fucking relationship you have, with just about anybody, from now on? I mean jesus christ, the placement alone is enough to make anybody sick,” Roger spat, and Brian hung his head.

“You can’t just quit that shit, you know,” he added, fists curled up into balls, looking like he was going to punch something. Brian almost hoped it would be him, so he could knock some bloody sense into him. His words alone were doing a fine job at that, though.

“It’s hard, it hurts, it doesn’t just ‘get better’ like everyone thinks it will. Do you really think you’re going to be that deep into hating yourself that you want to fucking butcher yourself, sitting there with a blade in your hand, and you’re going to stop and put the bloody thing down and go and sit with your friends? It’s not going to happen, and you’re going to keep doing it until one day it isn’t enough and you have to-” he couldn’t finish his sentence, and his shaky hands fumbled for another cigarette, finding the pack empty, swearing and throwing it at his feet.

“I need more smokes - don’t tell me I don’t,” he said quickly, starting up the van. Brian couldn’t help but stare at him. He clearly knew exactly what he was talking about, and though he was desperate to know, he didn’t dare ask how he knew so much about it. He suddenly felt himself awash with guilt, shame, but most of all desperation.

“How do I stop?” he asked quietly, eyes searching for something, anything, some hope that whatever had happened with Roger before wouldn’t happen again, that they could put a stop to it all before it was too much.

“I don’t know,” he said quietly, pulling into a pump at the petrol station, getting out and filling the van, leaving Brian alone inside with his thoughts. Roger was about five minutes, and came back with an entire carton of cigarettes, having one lit and dangling from his lips before he was back in the van. Brian didn’t say anything, not being able to bring himself to speak, getting a bit nervous when Roger pulled out onto the highway.

“Where are we going?” he asked softly, not wanting to make him think that he wasn’t up for going wherever Roger wanted.

“Drive,” was all he responded with, eyes focused on the road ahead, and that was fine with Brian. A drive might do them both some good.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CWs for   
> Suicide/talking about suicide  
> Talking about cutting/self harm  
> Mentions of death
> 
> Also there is smut so if u don't like that then skip it

Roger drove for what seemed like hours. It turned out to only have been an hour and a half, but neither of them thought to start a conversation the entire way. That, or neither of them had the balls to. Roger had continued chain smoking, and Brian had cracked open a window so that he could breathe, earning a dirty glare from Roger. He just kept his head close to the window, trying to figure out where they could possibly be going this far out, sucking in saving breaths of the cold air from outside. Roger didn’t seem to know where he was going either, really, until he made a sudden sharp turn at the end of a dead end road, pulling into a gravel car park. There were no street lamps, and no light from any houses or shops nearby, all they had was the light from the vans headlights, and then Roger turned them off, too, leaving them with just the moon.

“Get out,” Roger said suddenly, and for a sickening moment, Brian worried that he’d driven him there just to leave him and drive away. He hadn’t, though, of course. Roger got out of the van, leaning back in the door.

“Out,” he repeated, and Brian did as he was told, following him, which was quite stupid when he thought about it. He hadn’t a clue where they were, and Roger was cross and stupid and probably had no oxygen left in his body for his brain to use to think. He lead them through thick scrub until he heard water lapping quietly, having to walk quite fast to keep up with Roger’s almost run. They finally made it through the patch of scrub, out onto a stony, dirty looking beach. Despite it looking like an oil tanker had tipped over just offshore, and smelling like several things had died, it was quite pretty, really. The moon was large, almost full, and hanging particularly low, and the waves were lapping calmly against the shore. If it weren’t so cold, it would have been a nice spot to spend the evening. Roger didn’t seem to care that it was cold, or that it had been raining, settling down on the stones and drawing his knees to his chest.   


“Oh, Rog, you’re going to get all wet,” he said softly. Roger shrugged. He didn’t seem to look very angry anymore, and that worried Brian more than anything, he just looked sort of… resigned. Brian decided that he was here now, Roger didn’t look too keen on moving in the next hour at least, so he might as well talk to him. He settled down on the stones beside him, cringing as his jeans were soaked through almost right away, crossing his legs.   


“Nice spot you’ve got here,” he said, leaning back on his hands and looking at the sea. It looked dark and still, and the reflection of the moon was forming a ladder all the way to the horizon.

“Come up here sometimes,” Roger started, Brian noticed he’d lit another smoke, letting it dangle from the centre of his lips.

“Nobody else comes here. Pain in the arse to get to, shithole once you get here,” he shrugged, “don’t mind. I like it, so.”

“I think it’s nice,” he said, resting his elbows on his knees.

“Pretty sure it’s where all the rubbish from the Thames ends up,” he added, and Brian laughed a little, giving him a nod. That made sense, it smelled like it to. He was sure if he came during the day when he could see properly, it wouldn’t have been so nice. Didn’t matter though, he was here now, and it was. It was peaceful and quiet and Roger seemed okay so Brian felt okay too. There was silence for a while, a long while, but neither of them seemed to mind. Roger had been through almost a full pack of smokes, and Brian had been up once to wander back into the scrub to take a leak, and had settled back beside him, when Roger had finally spoken.

“My sister,” he started, letting the words hang in the air. Brian frowned, eyebrows knitting together, watching as Roger’s jaw tightened.

“Yeah, Clare?” Brian said softly, a bit surprised when Roger shook his head.

“Jeannie,” his voice was quiet and hollow sounding. It was Brian’s turn to shake his head. Roger only had one sister, Clare, and he’d seen her a few weeks ago when she and Roger’s mum had come to see him. She was lovely, a little bit annoying maybe, but that’s how sisters were, he supposed.

“We’re not… we don’t talk about her,” he added when Brian sounded like he was going to correct him.

“What do you mean?” Brian asked. He was all kinds of confused now, Roger was speaking cryptically, and his voice sounded thick and wobbly and hesitant.

“She was like you, Brian,” he mumbled, “she was my older sister.”  _ Was _ , Brian thought, stomach tightening as he listened.   


“She was lovely. She was my best friend. She used to - when I was in, primary school, and I was being chased home by these guys in the year above me on their bikes, she jumped out from behind the bins and stuck the handle of mum’s broom through the spokes,” he laughed, dropping his chin onto his chest.   


“Mum went absolutely wild in the moment but I don’t think she ever got in any trouble for it. They didn’t go by our place on the way home again either,” he added, and Brian’s heart was thumping in his chest. He felt like he was going to be sick. Roger was reminiscing, and he didn’t know for sure why, but he had a horrible suspicion and he really didn’t want him to finish what he was going to say. He let him, though, not able to make eye contact with him as he continued.

“She was like you,” he repeated, “you know, all depressed and shit.”

“I’m not depressed,” Brian said quickly. Roger shot him a look, and he shut his mouth. He took a break to light another smoke. Brian thought he might as well have put the whole pack in his mouth at once and tried that instead. His hands didn’t stop shaking, and he noticed he had an unlit cigarette dangling from his fingers, waiting for the second he finished the one he was burning. Brian wondered how he was still alive and breathing. He hadn’t taken any actual air into his lungs for a long time.

“Started slicing herself up too,” he said. Brian felt the blood drain from his face, and he nodded, curling into himself, feeling suddenly frighteningly cold.   


“She couldn’t stop, we couldn’t stop her. We couldn’t even  _ help _ her, almost every inch of her was just scar tissue, then,” he didn’t look like he was going to finish, and he noticed he was lighting the other smoke and putting it between his lips before he’d even finished the one he had going.

“She killed herself,” he said bluntly, almost painfully emotionlessly, letting his eyes drift away a little bit. Brian thought he was going to be sick right there, and his heart was pounding in his ears. He couldn’t understand why he’d never heard about it, why Roger had never talked to them about it, or even mentioned her before.

“We tried all that shit, that fucking  _ nonsense _ that Deaky and Freddie are trying. It doesn’t work, it makes you sneaky. Makes you better at hiding it and putting on a fake smile until you hang yourself from the fucking ceiling because it hurts too much to-” he stopped himself, swallowing and flicking the burnt out cigarette somewhere along the beach, clearing his lungs of all he'd been smoking for the past few hours and spitting onto the stones beside his legs, stretching them out in front of him.

“Doesn’t even get better after you’ve done it, you know. You’re the disgrace of the family, nobody talks about you. They clear out your bedroom and put your ashes in a cupboard and pretend you never existed,” he spat, getting up, practically storming off down the beach. Brian sat by himself for a moment, shell shocked, before getting up and running after him.   


“Rog, jesus, I-I didn’t know,” he said, panting a bit, doing his best to keep up.

“Of course you didn’t. Something like that happens, you don’t… you don’t talk about it. Life goes on, except yours won’t because you’ll be dead,” he told Brian matter of factly, and he winced. Roger stopped dead, folding his arms over his body like he was trying to hold himself together, tucking his chin down onto his chest and letting out a pitiful sounding sob.   


“Oh, fuck, Roger,” Brian said sharply, not knowing whether he should hold him or leave him be and go back to the van. He just stood there, shaking with cold and anxiety, hands tucked into his armpits, voice caught in his throat.

“Don’t-” Roger choked, shaking his head and clearing his throat, taking a few deep breaths. Brian could hear his lungs struggling, wheezy and rattly from inhaling nothing but thick, tarry smoke for the better part of the evening, clearly happy to finally be taking in some fresh air. Roger cleared his throat and spat again, turning back to Brian.   


“I loved her, Brian,” he choked, eyes searching Brian’s face for something he wasn’t sure he’d find.   


“I loved her and I-” he stopped himself, eyes darting to the patch of ground between them, worrying his lip between his teeth, hands shaking terribly now that he didn’t have a cigarette to steady them.   
  
“I love  _ you _ , Brian.” 

He'd managed to spit it out, barely, not sending his eyes back up to look at him. His voice sounded ashamed, and embarrassed, and a little bit hopeful. Brian hadn't expected what happened next, which was Roger’s chapped lips on his own, tasting of nothing but cigarettes, sending Brian stumbling back, and horribly, pushing Roger away with both hands on his chest. He hadn’t meant to push him, but he’d been shocked, and the taste of cigarette tainted lips on his own sent him spiralling into a panic, and when he caught his breath, he saw Roger, on his arse in front of him, looking a bit dazed.

“Shit, jesus, I didn’t mean to - I didn’t  _ not _ want to, I just-” he stammered, and Roger shook his head.

“No, no I really shouldn’t have done that,” he said, shaking his head quickly, seeming to sober himself a little bit, rolling his shoulders. Brian reached out a hand to help him up, and he took it hesitantly, being pulled to his feet. Brian didn’t know what to say, or what to do. Roger was looking up at him, his cheeks were a bit red, and he looked ashamed. Brian wondered if he wanted to kiss him again. Brian did, which shocked him, he’d never thought about Roger like that before, he hadn't let himself, but he didn’t know if he could without freaking out again. His mouth would taste like cigarettes,  _ like him, _ and he wasn’t sure if he could handle that, not tonight. He didn’t want to push Roger again, especially not after what he’d just told him. He watched Roger turn on his heel, marching back across the beach and along the barely beaten trail through the scrub. He followed him back to the van, hesitating before getting in, worried Roger might not want him in the van with him after what had happened. He knocked on the window, and caught an eye roll from Roger.   


“Get in,” he said, leaning across to open his door from the inside. Brian slid inside sheepishly, settling back against the seat.   


“Shit,” he cursed suddenly, realising that they’d been out for hours, now, Freddie and Deaky would probably be worried sick at home, thinking he’d gone off into the night, never to return, or something much worse.

“Can we find a phone?”

“Yeah,” Roger said simply, eyes straight ahead as he started the van. He turned the radio up a bit, eyes on the road, clearly knowing where he was going. Brian couldn’t have even named the town they were in, which made him a bit nervous, but he didn’t let on. They soon pulled up outside a petrol station, deserted save for the bored looking clerk, dimly lit with blinking fluorescents, the scent of fuel making Brian feel a bit lightheaded.

“Going in, you want anything?” Roger asked, earning a quick head shake from Brian as he pulled out a few coins for the phone. He waited one and a half rings, before hearing a little yell as the phone was picked up.

“Hello?” it was Freddie, and he sounded panicky, which made sense.

“Hi, Fred, it’s me,” he said, hearing a gasp.

“Oh thank god! Darling where are you?! Deaky’s been around the neighbourhood twice looking for you!” he scolded, and Brian winced.

“I’m alright, god, sorry, Roger picked me up and he’s taken me for a bit of a drive,” he explained. He could practically hear the eye roll from the other end of the line.

“It’s that bloody beach isn’t it! God that place is a tip, be careful there's syringes everywhere! Don’t touch anything at all actually, you'll get syphilis,” he grumbled. Brian laughed softly.   


“Yeah, yeah it is, don't worry I'm not getting syphilis. I’ll be home in an hour or so, you guys can go to bed,” he said. He heard him sigh.   


“Mm, I don’t think so darling. Once Deaky comes back I’ll let him know you’re alright, we’ll be waiting,” he said.   


“Alright, whatever you like,” he sighed. He desperately wanted to tell Freddie what had happened, what Roger had told him, that Roger had kissed him, that Brian wanted him to  do it again. But he couldn’t. It wasn’t his secret to tell. It would complicate things, so he left him with a goodbye, hanging up the phone, turning to Roger who had been leaning against the wall by the phone, waiting for him to finish up. He hadn't bought anything, and he was wiping his hands on his shirt, so he must have been in to use the loo. He turned to him, watching Roger watch him, blue eyes flickering up and down his face, and this time he did something he didn’t think he would do. He wasn’t thinking though, he hadn’t been thinking for days, and in a second he had him pressed up against the brick, his lips against Roger’s, eyes squeezed shut. He breathed through it, through the taste of cigarettes and bitterness until it didn't taste of anything but Roger. He pulled away again, quickly, staring him down without realising it. There was a hint of a smile on Roger’s lips, and he looked him up and down.   


“So… I wasn’t being a complete prick before, then?” he asked, sounding a bit breathless, eyes almost black, back to worrying his bottom lip between his teeth.

“No, don’t think so,” he said softly, managing a small smile even though he still didn’t feel like smiling.   


“So you just felt like giving me a shove?” he asked, looking him up and down, before heading back to the van. Brian realised that they were moving again, following him quickly, feeling his stomach starting to churn when he asked him about what he'd done. He figured he needed to come clean, tell him why he’d pushed him, instead of making up an excuse, if he was ever going to have a hope of moving forward. He was starting to realise that he  _ really _ liked Roger, maybe he had for a long time, and he really didn’t want to fuck anything up.   


“You,” he struggled to even choke that out, and Roger was turning around with a frown. He’d only meant his comment as a joke, but the way he’d responded wiped the smile off his face.   


“You tasted like him?” Brian posed it so it sounded like a question, catching Roger off guard.   


“I what? Who?” he was confused, leaning over the hood of the van to look at him. Brian got into the front seat, needing to sit down, feeling his legs shaking a bit.

“Bri?” he asked carefully, getting into the driver seat but not turning the van on.

“Mm,”

“What do you mean I tasted like him? Who’s ‘him’?” he frowned, and Brian felt his hand on top on his own, giving it a little squeeze. Roger turned his body so he was facing him properly, tucking a leg under himself.

“The guy I went home with, the other week,” Brian said, letting his shoulders drop. Roger went pale.

“Oh,” he breathed, “Deaky's been fielding calls from him for  _ ages _ ,” Brian's stomach dropped at the thought. 

“He said that he wasn’t very nice.”   


“No, the trouble was he  _ was _ nice,” he said. Roger gave him a confused look.   


“He was nice, and he still drugged me up so that he could-” he cut himself off, he’d said it once before, but he couldn’t bring himself to utter the words again.

“I thought you said it was something to relax you,” Roger said quietly, looking a bit pale. He wasn’t looking at Brian anymore, he was picking at his hands, staring at them with intent.

“It was, he said it was anyway, but I didn’t know that I’d been given it… I couldn’t move. I couldn’t do anything and he wouldn’t stop when I told him to,” he managed a whisper, feeling a bit silly for still being so upset by it. Roger practically gulped, looking horribly guilty, picking at his thumbnail.   


“Well, now I feel like a right prick,” Roger spoke, finally, “Deaky didn’t tell me  _ that _ part.”

Brian shook his head, taking his hand when he managed to make his thumb bleed.   


“Stop,” he hushed, “he didn’t tell you because I didn’t want him to.” Roger ducked his head.   


“Sorry,” he mumbled. Brian sighed and gave his hand a squeeze.

“You didn’t know,” he said, smiling a little bit when Roger squeezed his hand back.

“I’ll brush my teeth first next time?” he offered hopefully, and Brian smiled. He wanted there to be a next time, and as bizarre as he found it, Brian did too.

“We need to go home,” he said. Roger nodded, starting the van, having to take his hand away from Brian’s - hesitantly, he noticed, his heart fluttering a bit - to work the gear stick.

They didn’t talk much on the way home, both of them more than content to listen to the radio quietly, Roger asking him if he was hungry - definitely not, - as they'd passed a McDonald's, but he’d just politely shaken his head. He had to park a bit away from the flat, the pub down the road had an event on, a few local bands playing, and the streets were packed, so he parked in the same place Brian had found him when he'd gone looking for him. On the walk from the park to the flat, Roger had reached over, almost shyly, Brian would say, to clasp his hand. It gave him strange butterflies, and he was a bit annoyed that he’d waited this long to do anything about the feelings he’d clearly had for quite some time now. They could have been doing this for ages. It felt natural and comfortable and didn’t make him anxious. Well, it did, but in a good kind of way where he felt light headed and a bit giggly and not nauseous and panicky.

They made it back to the flat, Brian having to let them in, Roger had forgotten his house keys. He shushed him when he saw Freddie and Deaky curled up in front of the TV on the sofa, the test card showing a familiar little girl and a clown puppet.

“Shh,” he hushed Roger, watching as he crept into the kitchen and turned on the lights, clattering around, clearly looking for something to eat. Brian rolled his eyes, thinking that Freddie and Deaky would get sore sleeping on the sofa, going over to wake them up.   


“Darling,” Freddie said tiredly, blinking up at him, “you’re back, is Rog here? Is he okay?”

“He’s fine, he’s trying to kill his sandwich before he eats it I think,” he winced when he heard another clatter from the kitchen. Freddie nodded tiredly, reaching up to stroke his hair for a moment, face awash with relief, shaking Deaky awake to get him to bed as Brian went to the kitchen to see what Roger was getting up to.

“Fucking ham,” he heard as he entered the kitchen, seeing him standing with a piece of wax paper in one hand, three pieces of ham on the linoleum floor, bending down to pick them up, throwing two in the bin, and worryingly deciding to salvage the one that had landed on top.   


“Er, don’t think that’s the best idea Rog,” he commented.   


“It’s fine, it didn’t touch the floor,” he grumbled, practically slamming it down onto a slice of bread.

“You want some?” he offered, holding out the paper.

“No, veg,” he reminded him carefully, catching an annoyed looking eye roll.   


“I’m not making you a broccoli sandwich or whatever it is your kind eat,” he mumbled, messily slapping another piece of bread on top, taking a hungry looking bite.

“Cheese is fine,” he grinned, making himself a sandwich too, despite not being overly hungry. Roger watched him as he meticulously spread the margarine to all four corners of the bread, cutting careful, thin slices of cheese, tessellating them to cover the bread just so.

“It’ll be Christmas before you get a chance to eat it, Brian,” he said, raising an eyebrow. He just shot him a look. Okay, so even though he’d kissed him, he clearly wasn’t going to be any less annoying. He watched him for another second, before he wasn't able to take the painful slowness of Brian's operation any longer. He marched over to him, taking the knife, slicing a few uneven pieces of cheese, dropping them onto the bread before slamming another slice on top, shoving the plate at him.

“There, cheese, bread, eat,” he said, waiting for him to take the plate.   


“I like margarine on both sides,” he said. Roger looked like he could kill him.   


“You’ll have margarine on both sides of your arse cheeks in a minute,” he warned, before cracking a smile.

“Jesus christ, why’d it have to be _ you _ ,” he rolled his eyes, looking up at Brian almost adoringly, and Brian shrugged, biting into his sandwich. The cheese wasn't sliced or distributed evenly, and it was a bit dry without the proper amount of margarine, but he ate it anyway.   


“What do you mean by that?” he asked, leaning up against the kitchen counter beside the stove. Roger glared.

“I could go out, right now, down the pub, and have my bloody pick of about thirty or forty people, but it’s got to be the annoying prick that colour codes my fucking trainers, doesn’t it?” he shook his head, jumping up onto the counter, almost falling into the sink.

“Mmhm,” Brian grinned, shrugging and taking another bite of his sandwich, “how long?”   


“What?” Roger asked, voice quiet now, staring at his sandwich like it was the most interesting thing on earth.

“How long have you wanted to do that?”   


“Do what?”   


“Rog,” he sighed, rolling his eyes.   


“A while. Few months at least,” he mumbled, and Brian dropped his head down, sighing.   


“You might’ve just told me,” he groaned, and Roger shrugged.   


“Didn’t want to fuck anything up,” he mumbled, only picking at his sandwich now as Brian furrowed his eyebrows.   


“But you're not worried about that now?” he asked, somehow managing to have finished his food before Roger. Maybe he had been a tiny bit hungry, then.

“No, well, I thought if… If I was going to lose you anyway-”   


“If you were what?” Brian asked, a little taken aback.

“No, no, fuck, why can’t I speak without fucking anything up?!” he was cursing, getting angry with himself, and Brian stood up.   


“Rog, it’s alright,” he hushed him, really not wanting him to get cross and wake Freddie and Deaky. They’d been through enough, they didn't need a rampage on their hands.

“It’s not alright, that’s horrible! And what I said before when we were all talking, fuck, I can’t… you don’t need this, Brian, you don’t need  _ me _ fucking everything up while you’re going through this whole-” Brian silenced him with a gentle hand on the side of his face.   


“Rog, shh. I think it’s safe to say we’ve both fucked up a fair bit in the past few weeks, hm?” he soothed him, noting his shoulders dropping with his touch.

“Why don’t we sit down and have a chat, okay?” he suggested, and Roger shook his head.

“I don’t - I’m not good at talking. I don’t think that talking it out is going to be the best way to work this out. I’ll just get cross-” he was cut off with Brian’s lips on his again. He still tasted like cigarettes and a bit like ham, which wasn’t ideal, but Brian felt him smile against his lips which warmed his heart, and he pulled away after a second.

“Alright, then, how about we do a bit of talking, and a bit of… cuddling, and we meet in the middle, okay?” Brian suggested. Roger seemed satisfied with that, nodding and following him to the sofa. Roger settled against him, in his arms, a little stiff and awkward for a moment.   


“Am I too heavy?” he asked carefully, wary of how thin he'd become recently, and Brian shook his head.   


“Not at all,” he hushed, and he felt him rest a bit more weight on him, comfortably heavy, feathered hair tickling the side of his neck.   


“What am I supposed to talk about?” he asked softly, picking at his hands. Brian pulled one hand away, securing it in his lap, giving him a stern look.   


“Whatever you like. I mean ideally what’s upsetting you, but,” he explained, letting Roger fill in the gaps, and Roger nodded.

“Yeah um… I don’t know. You being sad,” he mumbled with a shrug. His voice was quiet and a bit pleading, and Brian felt like he’d been punched in the stomach.   


“Mm?” he encouraged.   


“I can’t… I’m not good at this,” he muttered, shaking his head quickly. Brian gave him a bit of a squeeze, and he felt his shoulder drop.   


“It’s okay, you don’t have to be ‘good’ at it, as long as you get your point across how you want to,” he told him reassuringly.   


“I just think… I got really frightened because you were doing something that I’d seen happen before and it had ended so horribly then and… I didn’t want you to die too,” he said. That was another blow to Brian, it hurt worse than he could have imagined, hearing the words out loud.

“I’m not going to die,” he said quietly, hand knotting in Roger’s hair as he heard him make a noise, almost a sob, his heart speeding up a bit.   


“Ever?” he asked in a small voice, and Brian laughed.   


“Well,” he started, and then Roger was looking up at him with teary blue eyes and he couldn’t bring himself to finish what he was going to say.

“Yeah, ever,” he sighed, noting with relief that Roger slumped against him, head lolling on his chest.

“You’ve promised now, so now you have to keep it,” he told him earnestly, fingers playing on his inner thigh, “and I’m sorry, for what I said,” he added. Brian smoothed his hand over his hair, shaking his head.   


“I forgive you, and I’m sorry for… well, everything. And for kicking you, and pushing you over as well, never thought I was that physical,” he laughed dryly. Roger shrugged.   


“Don’t mind getting a bit rough,” he teased, which had Brian sighing and looking up at the ceiling, shaking his head.

“Does this mean you’re going to stop?” Roger asked, looking back at him, a little bit desperate. Brian swallowed.   


“I’m going to do my best to,” he said confidently, because it was the truth, “I’m sure you won’t let me do anything too stupid.” Roger smiled sadly up at him, pursing his lips for a kiss, and Brian gave him one, quickly, before seeing him nod.   


“I won’t you know. I won’t be any nicer than I was before if I ever catch you again,” he warned, and Brian nodded. The threat of that just might keep him sane, too. He noticed Roger’s fingers were still tracing the inside of his thigh, almost seeming to be a force of habit, and Brian squirmed nervously.   


“Really, Rog? Can’t go five minutes without it can you?” he sighed, feeling his hands shaking as his cock twitched with interest. His heart was pounding, beating in his ears, and his vision was going blurry. He felt sick, and Roger stopped suddenly.   


“God, sorry!” he said quickly, “I don’t even notice I’m doing it.” He gave a sheepish smile, clasping his hands together in his own lap. Brian’s breathing was shaky, and he was now almost painfully hard from just the small touch. He realised he hadn’t touched himself since ‘the night’, which was a couple of weeks ago now, and the realisation had his breath coming shakily, doing his best to calm down.   


“It’s alright,” his voice was a little bit too high, and he shifted his hips. Roger looked to his face, then to his lap, and back up, with a little smile.   


“You need to- I can…” he started, fingers twitching unconsciously, “can I?” Brian gave him a little nod, hoping, praying that he’d be okay, and Roger frowned with concentration, approaching him with trepidation.   


“Okay?” he asked softly, fingers reaching for Brian’s fly, and he jerked his hips back.   


“I-I can do it,” he said carefully, and Roger nodded, sitting back to let him prepare himself. It took Brian taking a deep breath and hesitating at his fly for Roger to realise what was causing him to be so cautious.   


“Oh! Brian if-”

“It’s okay. I want to,” he stopped him before he could say anything else, freeing himself quickly from his jeans and underwear, feeling a bit panicky, and exposed, and a bit bad for being on the sofa where Freddie or Deaky could walk out at any moment. Roger sat back, watching him carefully, hand reaching out toward him.   


“Should I…” he began. Brian nodded, leaning back carefully, breath hitching as Roger wrapped his hand around him. He was very cautious of the fresh cuts on his hips and his groin, just above where he was touching, faltering for a minute.   


“I shouldn’t… I should stop,” he said quickly, taking his hand away. Brian’s breath hitched as he removed it, the touch had been nice, it had been  _ good, _ and he didn’t want him to stop.

“I… You don’t have to, if you’re not comfortable,” he said quickly, stomach turning as he realised the reason he’d made the scars in the first place was now the reason that Roger was turning him away.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he said, his voice small and frightened, and he was clutching his hands together by his chest. 

“You’re not. You won’t,” he assured him, gently wrapping his fingers around the back of his neck to pull him into a kiss. This time, all he tasted was Roger, and he sank into it. His heart had stopped beating so sickeningly fast, and was now beating quickly only with what he recognised as arousal, hips shifting a little bit, finding himself a bit impatient.

“We could… if you wanted to you could,” he couldn’t seem to find the words, eyes drifting down to his lap, but Roger sensed what he was getting at, eyes sparkling a little bit, getting up off the couch.   


“Hang on, I’ve got one somewhere,” he said quickly, reaching into the pocket of his discarded coat, pulling out a condom, and a tiny bottle of lube. Brian had to roll his eyes at that, shaking his head in disbelief.

“Always ready to go, are you?” he smirked, and Roger gave him a cheeky grin.   


“Always,” he repeated, crawling back onto the sofa, holding a condom in one hand, lube in the other, freezing for a minute. Brian realised what had him stopping, and his heart was in his throat when he realised Roger might want to top. He didn’t know if he could cope with that, he didn’t know what feelings it might bring back, or how he would react if he  _ was _ reminded of anything.   


“I can’t… I can’t have you in me,” he said tactlessly, and Roger visibly relaxed.   


“Oh thank god,” he sighed, handing the bottle of lube to Brian, tearing the package open with his teeth.   


“Careful,” he warned, watching as he slipped the condom into his mouth. What the fuck was he doing? He wondered if he’d gotten one of those stupid flavoured ones, which he probably had, knowing Roger, when his hand went to the base of his cock and - oh, he was taken into the warm wetness of Roger’s mouth as he rolled it on, down his length, with his tongue, and he had to grab the arm of the sofa to keep himself quiet. His head hit the back of the sofa, and he let out a breathy moan as Roger pulled his head back up to look at him, looking disgracefully innocent, batting his eyelashes at him.

“That’s… that’s a nice little party trick, Rog,” he gulped, watching his face go from an innocent pout to a devilish grin.

“Is it?” he asked innocently, and Brian nodded, fumbling with the bottle of lube, managing to get the cap off, fingers dancing nervously in the air for a moment.   


“How do you want me?” Roger asked softly, Brian almost came at the sound of his voice, taking a moment to compose himself.   


“Er… Maybe if you sort of…” he helped guide him so he was straddling his lap, and when they both realised that wasn’t going to work, he helped him turn around so his back was against his chest instead, knees either side of his thighs. It took them a moment or two until they were both comfortable enough, Roger seeming over eager to be touched, which wasn’t surprising to Brian in the least.   


“You ready?” he asked softly, kissing his shoulder blade. He nodded, turning his head to look at him over his shoulder, wriggling his hips a little.

“Come on, haven’t got all night,” he teased, and Brian rolled his eyes, squeezing a generous amount of lube onto his fingertips, hesitating for a moment.

“You’ll tell me if I’m hurting you, won’t you?” he asked softly, hand shaking a bit.   


“You won’t hurt me, Bri,” he said, bouncing impatiently in his lap. He took that as a sign he’d better suck it up before Roger did it himself, spreading him a little, moving his fingers to his entrance, circling it slowly. Roger let out a little moan, already pushing back onto his fingers.

“It’s not a romance novel Bri,” he whined impatiently, pressing back against him. He realised maybe he was being a  _ little _ bit cautious, slowly, but firmly, pressing into him, earning a satisfied moan from Roger.

“Yes, finally, fuck,” he moaned, greedily pushing himself down onto his fingers, “more.” Brian felt his face heating up at his demands, adding another finger, earning another moan.   


“God, come on, Brian…” he whined, lifting his arse a little, before pushing it back down as Brian worked his fingers to stretch him open. He added another finger, quickly this time. If Roger wanted more, he’d give him more.   


“Yes, jesus, there we go,” he was teasing him now, and Brian rolled his eyes. He shouldn’t have expected any less, really, adding a fourth finger hesitantly, worried that it was all going a bit too fast. Roger didn't seem to think so.

“Yes,” he moaned, melting a little bit now that Brian was taking control, spine arching backwards. Just the sight of him was getting Brian ridiculously worked up, and he went red as Roger, again, demanded

“More.”

“Any more and it’ll literally be my fist,” he said softly, catching Roger looking back over his shoulder at him.

“So?” he whined, and Brian swallowed thickly, thinking of anything else, the bins on garbage day, the time he’d run over a squirrel in the van, god, anything to keep him from losing it then and there.   


“God you’re greedy,” he groaned, deciding that he’d definitely opened him up enough to take his cock, he was practically begging for it.   


“You’re ready for me?” he thought to check anyway, just in case.

“Please, god, Brian, hurry up,” he whined, and he rolled his eyes.

“You’re ready alright,” he said, surprising himself when he gave his arse a playful slap. Roger moaned in response, arching his back, panting hard.   


“Do that again,” he moaned, voice rasping, sounding a little desperate. He did as he was asked, though, and that had Roger keening, forcing himself down onto his fingers. He grabbed the bottle, messily squirting a thick line of lube onto his cock, retracting his fingers slowly as he lined himself up. 

“Alright, I’m going to-”

“Brian!” Roger whined, “I don’t need you to keep warning me when you're going to do things, it’s alright. I like a bit of mystery,” his voice grew softer as he spoke, and Brian nodded, reminding himself it was alright, Roger wanted this,  _ he _ wanted this. He pressed the tip of his cock to his slick hole, letting out an ungodly noise as he gently pushed himself inside, hands gripping Roger’s waist. He let go, though, when he realised he might have been holding him too tightly, and it mightn’t have been comfortable. Roger just reached behind him when he felt him let go, firmly holding his hands in place on his hips. That shook the anxieties out of him, and he felt Roger pushing himself down onto him, letting his head drop forward onto his shoulders as he bottomed out, eyes squeezed tightly shut.

“Fuck, fuck Rog, you’re-” he couldn’t finish his thought as Roger started to move, being reduced to a pile of swears and pants and trembling limbs. He reached his hand around Roger’s middle blindly, feeling his hand being guided to Roger’s own already-slick cock, giving it a few experimental strokes. Roger’s head tipped back, and he let out a frightening yell, Brian reaching up to cover his mouth quickly.

“Shh! They’re in bed!” he hissed, his hand finding his waist again, helping Roger find a rhythm.   


“Like they’re ever any quieter,” he said breathlessly, though clearly making an effort to stifle a moan as Brian ran his thumb over the head of his cock. Brian felt his hips bucking up into him, moving his hand faster now, knowing that he was close and not wanting to leave Roger without release.

“Jesus Brian,” he panted, biting back a moan, “no idea you were- god, fuck,” his hand flailed around wildly, settling on Brian’s thigh, and he dug his nails in. Brian just pressed messy kisses to his shoulder blade, desperate to come, desperate not to at the same time.

“Rog I’m-” he gasped as Roger shifted his angle slightly, earning a desperate whine from both of them.   


“Please, darling, please come, god I need to,” Brian moaned, hand working furiously over Roger now, and before he could say, do, think anything else, he lost himself in pleasure, coming inside him, pressing his face into Roger’s back to stifle the ridiculously desperate noises he was making. He felt Roger clench around him as he came, sending him into another round of moaning and swearing, doing his best to keep his rhythm steady for Roger to ride out his orgasm.

He went slack on top of him, leaning back into him, letting out a rough whimper as Brian let go of his cock, hand coming away sticky and coated in come. He wiped it on his shirt. He’d change later, right now it was the farthest thing from his mind.

“Let’s sleep like this,” Roger mumbled, leaning back against Brian’s chest. He smiled, carding his clean hand through his blond locks.

“No, love, don’t think so,” he said quietly, helping him ease off him, earning a small whine of protest. He left him lying on the sofa while he got him a towel from the bathroom, gently tossing it to him to clean himself up, tying off the condom and dropping it in the bin before washing his hands. He only washed them once, this time, conscious that the others were asleep, and the pipes made a bit of noise when it was cold. He didn’t need to wash them any more than that, either, he thought, once would get him clean enough to be presentable. He didn’t think about it any more as he pulled his shirt off and his underwear back on, scooping his jeans up and throwing them into his room, looking back at Roger curled up on the sofa.   


“Going to go to bed?” he asked softly, smiling at him fondly as he curled in on himself, pouting.   


“Only if I can sleep in yours,” he sulked, which was ridiculously impractical, it was only a single, he’d have to practically sleep on top of him, but maybe he wouldn’t mind that.   


“Yeah, come on,” he smiled, nodding his head towards their bedroom. Roger dragged his feet, waiting for Brian to settle into bed before curling around him, wincing a bit as he noticed the sun coming up over the horizon.   


“Think that means bedtime,” Roger yawned, hiding his face in Brian’s neck. He nodded, sinking into his mattress, a little bit cramped and a little bit sore, but completely, totally comfortable as he drifted off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So they're gay now bc im a sucker and also i suck at writing smut but uhh  
> anyway, the next chapter will be the last because it can't go on forever and i've got some other projects im wanting to work on, thanks so much to everyone for reading, im honestly still shocked at how much attention this has gotten. Stafe safe kiddos <3


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CWs in this chapter for  
> Cutting/self harm  
> Panic attacks

Just because Brian had Roger now, didn’t mean he didn’t slip. The afternoon he’d woken up with Roger curled around him, pinning him to the bed, he’d almost had a panic attack. He’d felt trapped and tired and groggy, a feeling that was all too familiar, and he’d pushed him off, earning a tired mewl from Roger, before he’d opened his eyes and told him to stop fucking about, and if he was going to get up, just get up. The edge to his voice had sobered him a bit, and he’d nodded, getting out of bed and doing a lap of the flat before settling in the kitchen, switching the kettle on to make Roger his morning cuppa. He didn’t make himself one, but Roger seemed pleased that he’d thought of him, accepting it with a smile and a quick kiss.

They’d eventually explained the situation to Deaky and Freddie, who were less surprised than Brian had been, which made him a bit cross, but they’d accepted it immediately and started talking about the cheapest place to get a queen mattress and bed base. Then, it was like settling into a new routine. Roger and Brian always shared a sofa now, instead of Brian sitting in his armchair, and if he did, Roger would make sure he made him as uncomfortable as possible, settling into his lap and trying to dig his tailbone into his thighs until he relented and took the sofa so that Roger could curl up against him and Brian would play with his hair. 

Brian would almost always wake up first in the mornings, now having something to do, Roger expecting to wake up with a cup of tea, whining for the rest of the day if he didn’t. He didn’t have his moods as much, if he did Brian had a way of bringing him out of them, normally with a kick up the arse and a trip to bed. He'd gone back to uni, and back to work, and had even started playing his guitar again, and writing songs that weren't so sad, some that were, when they came to him, but he had other things to write about too. He'd even written a few about Roger which he would never ever tell him were about him, because his fucking head would explode if he did. 

They did get a mattress, discarding their lonely singles for a too-soft queen, Roger had insisted on the softer one even though Brian had tried to convince him the firmer one would be better in the long run. He had a way of getting what he wanted, though, which Brian really didn’t mind. Roger had let him start putting flowers in their room too, and even hang a few (not  _ too  _ gay) tapestries, and had stopped smoking in there when Brian had asked him to, leaning out the window in the kitchen when he wanted to instead. He'd stopped smoking almost altogether, actually, finding he had a few better things to do with his time now, and his hands had stopped shaking after a while. They pushed the stupid desk out into the living room and replaced it with another bookshelf so that they had more room for their things, for Roger's science fiction novels and bottles of cologne, and Brian's comics and textbooks, and the room slowly stopped being Roger's side and Brian's side and it just became their shared space, both their trainers nesting side by side, peeking out from under the foot of the bed.

 

He’d come home from uni one day, overwhelmed and panicky, fingers twitching for something. He didn’t know what at first, until he found his thumbs at his hips, running over the now almost completely healed scars, that horrible, too familiar feeling rising in his chest. No, he thought, he couldn’t do that. Not to Roger, not to any of them, it wouldn’t be fair. He’d convinced himself, and all of them that he’d gotten better. And he had, but now all that progress was slipping away as he searched his bookshelf for the only thing he knew could ease the ache in his chest, the only tried and true way he could stop feeling the way he was. He knew it was pathetic. He knew he’d be a disappointment. This was what Roger had told him about, the way it would creep back and he, all of them, would be powerless to do anything to stop it. He couldn’t stop it either, as he dragged that stupid, dirty fucking blade over the skin on the inside of his wrist, just once, until something made him stop.

He heard the door to the flat open, close, and somebody wandering into the kitchen. He didn’t know what time it was, none of them were due to be back until much later, and he hoped they’d think he was still at uni and wouldn’t come near him. That was, until he did something that he didn’t expect himself to do.   


“Rog!?” he called, voice coming out borderline terrified, and he heard footsteps to his room.

“Yeah, love, what’s wrong, starving,” he said as he opened the door, feeling a horrible coldness wash over him as he saw Brian hunched over on the edge of their bed, staring into his lap.   


“Brian, you didn’t,” his voice begged, and he was crossing the floor quickly, flicking the lights on and grabbing his hands to roll up his sleeves, inspecting his wrists, gasping when he saw a trickle of blood running from a long, shallow cut.   


“The rest of it. Off,” he demanded, pulling at his shirt, and Brian shook his head.   


“I didn't, there's no more, I promise,” he begged. Roger didn’t look convinced at all, swearing again.   


“Jesus Brian!” he tipped his head back to look at the ceiling, shaking his head once, before kneeling in front of him.   


“You promised me,” he said quietly, voice thick and shaky, resting his forehead on the tops of Brian’s knees.

“How could you,” he choked, “how could you hurt yourself again? After everything I-”

“I’m sorry,” Brian said quietly, and Roger’s face went red.   


“Not sorry enough to not do it again! Not sorry enough to stop with this fucking nonsense, not sorry enough to keep your fucking promises!” he kicked the bed frame, hard, wincing as his toes came into contact with the wood.

“Don’t,” Brian said quietly.

“Or what? You’ll cut yourself up some more!? That’ll make me sorry won’t it?” he spat, before his shoulders started shaking, and he sat on the bed beside him, curling in on himself.   
“Brian I can’t… I’m so sorry I can’t,” he sobbed, holding his knees to his chest, drawing in a shaky breath.

“You can’t..?” Brian asked carefully, feeling himself being torn to bits watching Roger cry. That was worse than anything, worse than the feelings that had made him hurt himself in the first place.

“I can’t watch you…  _ destroy _ yourself, if you’re going to do that then…” he swallowed, looking over at Brian, only being able to shake his head.   


“I was… I was so happy, Bri, I thought you were happy too, I thought we could,” he choked, taking a shuddering breath.   


“No, Roger, no, please. This isn’t- you can’t blame yourself, please,” he begged.   


“I also can’t watch you every minute of the day to make sure you’re not hurting yourself, I can’t bear the thought of being out one day and coming back to you-” he had to stop there, he was shaking so badly he couldn’t speak.

“Because if that happens it’ll be my fault,” he managed to squeak out. Brian didn’t say anything. There was nothing he could say, with one cut he’d hurt him worse than he’d ever hurt himself.

“Please, Rog,” he started.   


“No, Brian, I can’t,” he sobbed, and Brian took him into his arms, holding him tightly and rocking him back and forth, slowly and calmly.   


“Please Roger, I love you, please don’t,” he begged. Roger took another shaky breath, looking up at him.   


“I’ll give you a choice, then,” he said, mouth forming a tight line.

“You need to stop, once and for all, or I just… I have to go,” he said, trying his very best to sound calm, but neither of them were. Brian felt like he was going to be sick, Roger looked much the same way, pulling away from him. Brian nodded, because he couldn’t not. He loved him, he couldn’t live with himself if he let him walk away just because he was being so stupid, just because he couldn’t stop doing the one thing he never thought he’d come to rely on. He never thought it would come to this, maybe alcohol, maybe wild parties and nightly orgies, maybe even drugs, but not this. It was so fucking pathetic he could barely stand to be in his own skin.

“Of course, yes, Roger, I’ll stop. Please just… give me another chance,” he begged, wiping his eyes on his sleeve. Roger held up one finger, firmly, almost-calm facade faltering.

“One, Brian. One more,” he said, hand shaking, having to lower it quickly so he could keep pretending that he knew what he was doing.   


“I promise. Please,” Brian said, shoulders shaking, trying to keep some semblance of composure so that he could actually talk about it like an adult. Roger was giving him an ultimatum, which didn’t seem unfair, actually, quite the opposite. After what Roger had told him that night, and what Brian had done to betray him today, he was surprised he was giving him a second chance at all. All the anger in Roger’s face seemed to fall away in an instant, and he took his hand, turning it over, running his thumb just above the cut on his wrist.

“Thank fuck I came home when I did,” he mumbled, other hand reaching up to knot in Brian’s hair.   


“Oh god if I hadn’t gone to the bakery… my lecture ended early so I went to get us some sweets from your shop for after tea, if I hadn’t I would have been home in time-” he stopped himself, shaking his head, getting angry again.   


“No, this, this is why I told you you get one more chance,” he said firmly, “I’m not going to go through what I went through with Jeannie, not again. I’m not going to chain myself to the flat out of fear. I’m not going to be coming home to what ifs, or sitting at your funeral wondering what could have been if I’d been a minute sooner, I refuse to do that to myself.” 

Brian nodded soberly, a bit surprised at his little speech. He clearly knew exactly what he was willing to do, even for Brian, and had absolutely no trouble in making it very clear to him. He felt his chest swell with something, gratefulness, pride, respect, that he’d managed to voice his thoughts so concisely without even yelling, and he nodded.   


“I understand,” he said softly, looking to him carefully, “will you help me, please?”

“Will I help you,” Roger repeated, almost a whisper, his shoulders dropping as he relaxed.

“Oh, sweetheart, of course,” he held the sides of Brian’s face, bringing their foreheads together gently, before planting a kiss on his lips.   


“Of course I’m going to help you, but only if you want help, only if you try,” he said, and Brian nodded. He did, desperately, and he watched as Roger took a tissue out of the box beside their bed, pressing it to his wrist, shaking his head.   


“You poor thing,” he sighed, and Brian watched his face fall, “is it just the one?”   
Brian nodded, looking down into his lap for a moment, calming down as Roger ran his finger tips up and down the inside of his wrist. Roger kissed along behind where his  fingers traced, looking up at him.   


“No more,” he said quietly, and Brian nodded.   


“I’m so, so glad that you called out for me when you did,” he soothed, running his hand up and down Brian’s back, and it was his turn to curl into Roger.

“I love you so much, okay? You need to know that, I need to know that you know that,” he whispered. Brian nodded, swallowing thickly, barely finding his voice.   


“Love you too,” he mumbled into his chest.

“Give me the blade, love,” he said gently, surprisingly, and Brian did, handing him the small, rusted blade. Roger winced, putting it in his pocket, a little bit afraid that if he tossed it in the bin in front of Brian he’d pull it out and hide it again. He held him for a moment, before straightening up and smoothing his hair down, squaring his shoulders.   


“Come on, enough of this, I brought back custard tarts, we can steal Freddie and Deaky’s before they get home,” he said. That earned a smile from Brian, and he had him up and into the kitchen, secretly throwing the blade away in a folded tart pan when Brian went to boil the kettle.

 

The second time Brian found himself slipping was when he gotten home, after an exam. He was completely convinced that he’d failed, he hadn’t know the answers to anything, he’d bullshitted his way through his essay and was almost 100% sure he’d guessed every one of the multiple choice answers. He felt, in that moment, like he’d failed at life, like everything he’d done up to this point had just been pretending, faking it until he made it, only he hadn’t made it. He’d failed, he’d lied to everybody, everything he’d told everyone, the papers he’d written, the talks he’d given, the facts he’d blurted out to his friends over takeaway dinners, all nonsense, general knowledge embellished with fancy words to make himself sound impressive, and now that he’d actually had to prove himself, he couldn’t. He’d flopped, he’d failed, he was going to embarrass himself in front of everybody he’d looked up to for so long, and he couldn’t handle it.

He’d kept up appearances as he'd entered the flat, going straight into his bedroom, past his three flatmates on the sofa, and before he’d thought about it, about anything else, he’d gone straight to it, his bed, the bookshelf, the book. But he’d forgotten. He didn’t have it anymore. He didn’t have his safety net, and when he realised that he couldn’t hurt himself anymore, he also realised that he had almost done it again, he’d almost lost everything, and that was enough to send his mind spiralling. He could feel the panic bubbling in his throat until he felt like he was about to burst. It took every ounce of strength in him to get up and walk to the door, to twist the handle and pull it open, and strength he didn't know he had to poke his head out, and find his voice.   


“Roger,” he rasped, and he turned his head, a smile on his face, until he saw the look on Brian’s. He excused himself, quickly crossing the floor to his room, shutting the door behind them. Brian just shook his head when Roger looked at him, breath gasping and fast, chest heaving, vision going blurry.

“Brian, Brian look at me,” he said firmly, squeezing his shoulder almost to the point of pain, until Brian lifted his head.

“I-I can’t breathe Rog,” he panicked, breath barely making it to his lungs, gasping and wheezy.

“You’re okay, you’re alright love, you’re having a panic attack,” he said calmly, guiding him over to the bed on too shaky legs so he could sit down. He squeezed his hand, rubbing circles on his back, speaking to him softly. He’d had panic attacks, and had seen people have them before, Brian, Freddie, even Deaky, but he never really had any idea what to do when they did, so he tried to keep quiet and rub his back in an attempt to soothe him, flicking the lamp on and angling it away from him. He heard his breaths coming a little less ragged, a little more regularly, and he spoke up.   


“Now, what’s all this about, love?” he asked, moving a bit closer to him, wrapping his arm around his waist.   


“I almost did it again!” he cried, fingernails finding the back of his hand, pinching himself until Roger took one of his hands, hushing him.   


“But you didn’t, did you?” Roger asked quietly, a hint of panic evident in his voice. Brian shook his head, and he felt Roger relax beside him.   


“I’m so proud of you,” he said quietly, taking his hand and squeezing it to his chest, “I am. I’m so, so proud of you, Bri.”

Brian felt his breath coming a bit easier again, and Roger was guiding him back so he was lying down, their noses almost touching as they curled up on the bed.

“What’s got you all worked up, hm? Did you see another RSPCA advert?” he asked with a little smile, earning a breathless laugh from Brian.   


“No, no. My exam,” he said, hearing Roger suck in a breath.   


“You flunked it?” he asked, making a sympathetic face. Brian nodded, eyes brimming with tears, squeezing them shut.

“How’d you know that? Hm?” he asked, fingers carding through his curls, tilting his head a little.

“It just- it’s like the second I walked in I forgot everything, and I just made everything up on the spot. I-I was just guessing,” his voice was shaky, but he was calming down a bit. Roger knew there was no way he failed his exam, but telling him that was never going to help him, because he wouldn’t believe him.

“Come on, that’s how I pass everything. You just make it up as you go along. Besides, even if you did totally stuff it all up and you get the worlds biggest fail and they expell you for being so terrible at everything, it won’t matter. We've got the band, which is turning into more of a plan A than a plan B, and  _ even if  _ we get booed off stage and rotten fruit thrown at us at the next gig and we can never show our faces in public again out of shame, you'll still have us, and me, and I love you, so you won't even be allowed to complain about it,” he said, kissing the end of his nose. He laughed softly and shook his head, letting out a sigh as he relaxed. Roger had put things into perspective a bit, which had helped. Roger held him for a moment, his hand getting tangled in his messy, greasy curls.   


“Now,” he said, pulling him into a tight hug, before sitting up, “you are very greasy, and you smell very bad, and you need to bloody calm down for a minute, so I’m going to go run you a bath. Grab your pyjamas and meet me in there.” Brian did as he was told, not really knowing what else to do, feeling a bit dazed by the whole thing. He hadn’t done it, he hadn’t hurt himself, Roger was still there, and he’d calmed down alright and he didn’t feel like hurting himself anymore, and maybe,  _ just maybe,  _ he actually had a chance at making it.

Roger had been right. The bath had been nice, Roger had sat with him, just to talk to him while he got himself clean, not bringing up that he’d taken almost an hour, just having a clean towel waiting for him when he got out. Once he was finished, he’d sat with his friends and they’d watched TV, Deaky had wanted to watch Doctor Who and Freddie had insisted on Coronation Street, so Roger had yelled at all of them and put on Are You Being Served and told them to shut up or he’d kick the set in. They’d had leftovers for dinner, which Brian had managed to finish, and argued over scrabble or monopoly until they’d decided that they weren’t going to play anything at all, and Deaky had settled with a novel, and Freddie had settled with his sketch-book and his feet in Deaky’s lap. Brian and Roger had turned in early saying they were tired, intending on having some quiet sex, deciding they were actually too tired and settling for lazy kisses and a handjob before actually falling asleep.

  
When Brian woke in the morning, the sun annoyingly streaming onto both of their faces through the curtain he’d forgotten to shut, the flat was silent, save for Roger’s snoring, and the mattress in Freddie and Deaky’s room creaking whenever one of them moved, and he lay by himself for a moment, collecting his thoughts. Despite what had happened, yesterday had been good. He hadn’t hurt himself, Roger was still there, snoring like a fucking truck beside him, and he couldn’t imagine ever doing anything to lose him, this, what he had right now. He got up, padding across the freezing cold tiles to switch the kettle on for Roger’s cup of tea. 

He breathed in the morning air, shutting his eyes. Everything wasn’t perfect, it wouldn’t ever be perfect. He would stumble again, but he’d have somebody there to catch him, Roger, or Deaky or Freddie, and help him get back up again. He switched the kettle off when it whistled, pouring Roger’s cup of tea, taking it back to their room and setting it down, waking Roger with a gentle kiss to his forehead. He opened his eyes and smiled up at him, holding his hand out expectantly for his tea, giving him a pout when he realised he hadn't brought him a biscuit to go with it. It was then, sitting next to the man he’d come to love, surrounded by the people he’d loved since the day he’d met them, that Brian knew. He knew that even if he slipped, stumbled and fell again, hell, even if the world as he knew it disappeared tomorrow, no matter what happened, everything was going to be okay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last chapter of this lil thingo, sorry I suck at endings :/  
> Thanks so much for reading I'm really glad yall enjoyed it anyway!


End file.
